Disclaimer.
I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.
NOTE; Seeing as this is a sequel fic, it's not recommended if you haven't read 'The Famous Living Dead' as some scenes may become confusing. Contains malexmale pairing, a child born through mpreg and cursing.
Collaberation with EmiStaw13y
There had been a church in the village ever since it became a village: never many of them, one or two at most in a generation; not a prolific stock, but a hardy and persistent one. The church was surrounded by graves, tombs and stone statues each iconic. The gravestones on the far edge of the yard could still to be seen in the old burying-ground: they had been the first to be buried there. The old stone was sunk half-way in the earth, and was gray with moss and lichens; but the inscriptions were still legible, if one looked close, and had patience to decipher the crabbed text. Then a pair of carved hands, clasped as in sign of friendship or loyalty. Standing on a stone foundation amoungst the graves was a tall, elegant carving of an angel. Mighty wings outspread and arms crossed reclusive across her chest, like a great stone martyr.
The winter, when it came, was hard. There was not so much snow as in milder seasons, but the cold held without breaking, week after week: clear weather; no wind, but the air taking the breath from the dryness of it, and in the evening the haze hanging blue and low that tells of intensest cold. As the snow fell, it remained. The drifts and hollows never changed their shape, as in a soft or a windy season, but seemed fixed as the sombre angel was for all time. As the night passed into morning, into the cold blue light of the winter moon and the bright hard glitter of the winter sun, her face was always there, and her absent eyes took an even sadder charm - then quite suddenly, a tear - warm, fell from her hollow socket down the surface of her cold cheek. To take it was a strange and dreadful thing to see.
It was a Wednesday into December, the day Ichabod Crane's daughter was born.