Prologue
The Warning
Steps fell softly on the newly fallen autumn leaves.
Crunch...crunch...
The steps carried the girl down the beaten path, through the forest of color.
Crunch...crunch...
Trees bent and swayed, submitting to the wind, their brightly hued leaves now tears swirling about.
Crunch...crunch...
She walked along in silence, a pack strung over her shoulder. Scarlet hair whirled about her face, mixing with the reds and oranges and yellows of the leaves.
Crunch...crunch...
Silent she was, and silent she stayed. Until she saw the man.
Crunch--
The girl stopped.
The man was leaning against a tree, leaves twirling and falling at his feet. He was pale, so gaunt and pale. The black of his hair was a shock to the white of his skin, not even the slightest of rose blushing his high cheekbones. Cloaked in darkness, draped in shadows, the man stood there. Then he spoke.
"Be you from Sleepy Hollow?" The girl stared at him, a hand nervously playing with the strap of her bookbag.
"Why?" He smiled slightly, his noble face growing ever more handsome.
"I simply wish to know if you hail from Sleepy Hollow."
"Yes," the girl frowned, backing up a bit, another crunch echoing through the woods. "but I go to school in the town over. But why--"
"'Tis not of importance, My Lady," the man said smoothly, waving an elegant hand. She stayed in her place for a moment before charging forward, on the path to her destination once more.
"If it's not of importance, then why bother me with questions?" The girl kept her eyes on the leaf-strewn ground until he spoke again.
"I wished to warn you, My Lady." She stopped.
"Of what?" The girl turned slowly, meeting eyes with the dark stranger. "And why do you talk so differently?" The man did not even shift as he answered.
"I wished to warn you that the Horseman rides at midnight." He finally stepped out to the path, standing a few feet from where she was. "It is a admonition, my dear. Remember--the Horseman rides at midnight." The man gave her a slight bow, then began walking slowly opposite of her. Then he turned. "I am also from Sleepy Hollow." With a short, mirthless grin, he turned once again. The leaves whirled, jumped, danced...the wind scattered them, sending them adrift. When the girl could see through the cloud of color, the man was gone.
Chapter I
The Meeting
The grandfather clock ticked incessantly in the hallway. A cat slept soundly on top of a chair, the white of its fur causing it to look like a rather interesting doily. The silence wasn't broken, save the occasional turning of a page. Then the door banged open. In she ran, dropping her red bookbag unceremoniously by the foyer closet. The girl tore down the long stretch of hall, white tennis shoes thudding shamelessly on the hardwood floor.
"Grandpa!" She skidded to a stop by a door. Quickly, she seized the brass knob and turned, sticking her head in. "Grandpa!" The cat's blue eyes snapped open and it went toppling off its resting place. The girl obviously had little sympathy for the feline. She charged past it and whipped open yet another door. "Grandpa!" The old man in the study looked up.
"Charlotte, what's wrong?" Panting, the girl sat down in an armchair near him.
"There was a man...and he was on the path...and he talked to me...and..." Charlotte stopped, eyes taking in the title of the book her grandfather held--Studies of Logical Reasoning. She stared at the book for a moment, then shook her head and stood. "Nevermind. It was stupid." Her grandfather frowned after her.
"Wait a minute. You were talking about a man on the path--" The girl turned, resting against the arm of a chair.
"Nevermind, Grandpa. There was a bird on the path, and I thought I saw somebody in the trees." Her eyes drifted down to the cat by her feet, its pristine fur mussed from its fall. "It was a mistake."
"Lottie, it's not my idea of a joke to come running in here, scaring me and Albert out of our minds--" Charlotte scowled at her shoes.
"I hate that cat," she muttered, sending a glare to the disgruntled feline.
"Albert is a nice cat," her grandfather declared indignantly. As if in response, the cat hissed and swatted at Charlotte's white tennis shoes.
"I'm sorry." she mumbled, as much to the floor as to her grandfather.
"It's all right." He ran a hand through his snowy hair before continuing. "Lottie, if there's something wrong, you need to tell me."
"No, Grandpa. Nothing's wrong." Charlotte forced a smile. "My imagination got the best of me." The old man sighed and turned back to his book, spectacled eyes peering at the pages.
"Whatever you say, dear. Just try not to get all riled up so often." The girl's hazel eyes watched him for a moment before she turned and sulked back out to the family room.
"Stupid cat." Charlotte grumbled, her words half-audible. Albert had slipped into the den with her before she shut the door to her grandfather's study. He settled quietly on a footstool, grooming his paws meticulously. The girl sneered at him. "You're always getting me in trouble, you know that? I swear, Grandpa defends you more than me." The cat didn't listen to her; he continued preening. Charlotte forgot about her disgust with Albert and began fiddling absent-mindedly with the twisted ring of silver around her thumb. "There was a man out there," she mumbled, rotating the ring slowly. Then she frowned. "And I was not all riled up."
"Charlotte O'Farland?" She nodded, pushing back a strand of pesky red hair. The delivery man held out a clipboard and a pen. "Sign, please." Charlotte took the board and signed it with a flourish. He handed her a very small package. "There. Have a nice day." She nodded half-heartedly and closed the door, turning to the living room. The return address read, 'Mr. and Mrs. Adrian O'Farland; Devon, England.' Charlotte scowled at the label and ripped off the brown paper. Revealed was a small green box. She took off the lid and set it down on the table, sitting down on the couch. Inside lay a delicate silver cross on a thin chain. Charlotte inhaled sharply and drew it from the cotton. The cross held an elliptical diamond in its center. Her fingertip stroked the stone, but then she noticed the note in the bottom of the box. Carefully setting down the necklace, she pulled out the paper and unfolded it.
Dearest Charlotte,
We are so dreadfully sorry that we could not be there for your birthday. Next year, darling. Your sweet sixteen will be perfect. Your mother and I have been terribly busy lately with business that could not be avoided. We promise, little one. We will be there next year.
All our love,
Mum and Da
Charlotte crumpled up the note in an angry fist. They always made excuses. Always. They never just came out and said that they hadn't come, they wouldn't come, they never would come. Business was always a barrier between the uncomfortable subject. Glowering, she tossed the note at the trash can and shoved the necklace back in its box. If her parents couldn't give her the thing face to face, she wouldn't wear it.
Her grandfather hobbled in, weathered hand patting Albert on the head as he passed.
"Lottie, what are you doing out here?" Charlotte tucked the box quickly behind a throw pillow.
"Just watching television," she said casually. He frowned.
"The television's not turned on, sweetheart." She glanced at the blank screen, then laughed.
"Imagine. Here I am, staring at a TV that's not turned on and I thought I was watching an extremely dark episode of 'Dawson's Creek'." The old man winced, touching his left leg, then sat down.
"Charlotte, I don't like it when you lie to me." She looked at the floor, then back up to him.
"Sorry, Grandpa Vincent." Vincent O'Farland opened his mouth to speak, but his words were stopped by a groan. Charlotte jumped up. "Is your leg bothering you?"
"Only in cold weather, you know that," he chuckled. Then he cringed again. "And there's a frost coming on." She hurried to the kitchen.
"I'll get you some ice."
"No," O'Farland began, standing. "I think I'll just go to bed. It'll be better in the morning." She closed the refrigerator door and ran to his side.
"Not if it's colder in the morning." The old man chuckled and hugged her gently.
"Don't worry so much about me, little Lottie. I'll be fine by morning." Slowly, he limped towards the end of the hall. "Good night." Charlotte bit her lip, then called after him,
"Don't forget!" His hand rested on the doorknob.
"Forget what?"
"May the morning bring smiles, may smiles bring love, may smiles bring angels from heaven above." Her grandfather chuckled.
"Of course. Good night, little Lottie." He twisted the knob and disappeared into his bedroom.
Charlotte stared at the door for a few minutes. How could her grandfather have forgotten about their ritual? Every night they said it, just before he went to bed. And he forgot. Quietly, she unlocked the door and slid outside to sit on the front steps. The night was cold and clear, stars twinkling above and the moon shining bright. Charlotte toyed with her red hair and watched the trees sway gently with the wind.
Everything was suddenly so confusing. She never saw her parents, she wasn't accepted in school, her grandfather was aching and forgetting...and the man. Her wandering thoughts brought the memory back with a snap. That man. What had he been doing there? How did he know she was from Sleepy Hollow? Charlotte was suddenly and fully aware of the cold. She scurried inside to get a blanket, then resettled on the white whicker chair near the porch light. She drew the blanket tight around her, keeping out the icy chills. The moon moved slowly through the dark sky, and before she knew it, she was asleep.
Hoofbeats...She could hear hoofbeats...
They were loud, angry...but they were not clumsy...No, the hoofbeats were smooth and elegant, but there was wrath behind them...rage...fury as hot as hell's fire...
The moon hung heavy in the velvet sky, a huge white eye watching them all...
Then there was the horse...
With a whicker of vehemence, the steed went charging down the street...instead of dirt, the hooves hit blacktop...
The rider didn't even use the reigns...the horse knew where they were going...Into the driveway they charged...the horse stopped immediately...the rider climbed down and walked with harsh, sharp steps into the house...There was a shout, a scream, a slice...
And silence...
Out marched the rider, hoisting himself back into the saddle...and off he rode into the dark night, his work accomplished...he was without mercy...He set out to do the deed, he reached his destination, and then the deed was done...this was his way...
This was the Horseman...
She leapt from sleep with a cry, nearly falling from her chair. The blanket had already slipped off, but in her sleep she had perspired. The sweat covering her forehead chilled her body as the cold wind hit her. Quickly, Charlotte looked around to find the warm quilt. Her eyes fell on the blanket lying on the front walk--right by the man's feet.
He'd come back.
She was afraid to go get the comforter, so she just sat there in the wicker chair and shivered. After a moment, he bent and picked up the blanket.
"Is this yours?" The man canted his head slightly, hiding a chuckle. "You look rather cold." Charlotte clapped her hands to her bare arms to tame the goosebumps.
"What are you doing here?" He took a few steps towards her, but stopped when her eyes widened.
"I wish to say I am here on holiday, but I'm afraid business brings me to your door." She wrinkled her nose.
"Business? What do you mean?" The man's lips twisted into something of a smile.
"Ah, but it is not proper for me to reveal my secrets until you unveil yours." Charlotte frowned, eyeing the quilt in his hands longingly.
"What secrets?" The man stepped a little closer.
"It is not proper for the lady to ask all the questions either. However, I will grant you the answer. Your name?" She lowered her eyes. She wasn't sure whether she should tell this man her name, but it seemed to flow easily from her mouth.
"Charlotte O'Farland." He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply, as if her name were a sweet perfume.
"Charlotte...a name as lovely as the girl who bears it." She blushed, though her face was barely visible in the dark night.
"Um...thank you. Your name?" The man kept a steady gaze with her.
"All in good time, Lady O'Farland." Suddenly alarmed at how dark it had gotten, Charlotte straightened.
"Oh, gosh, what time is it? Grandpa'll kill me if he catches me out here--" Her words were cut off by a shriek. The man smiled.
"'Tis midnight, Lady O'Farland. The Horseman rides."
Chapter II
The Telling
Charlotte stifled a small cry and jumped to her feet. Her breathing was irregular as she pointed down the street, jabbing the darkness with her finger.
"What...what was that?" The man cocked his head.
"What are you talking about?"
"That...scream. Who screamed?" She craned her neck to see around the porch. "I think it came from the Miller's--"
"I told you, Lady O'Farland--" Charlotte turned quickly, seeing that he was now standing on the porch.
"Get away from me!" She scrambled back against the front door. "What's going on?" The man's face was solemn as he watched her for a moment.
"I told you before, Lady O'Farland," he said very quietly. "the Horseman rides." She swallowed, then swallowed again.
"What, exactly, does that mean?" He continued to stare at her gravely.
"Make of it what you will." the man said, fingering the designs on the forgotten quilt. Charlotte kept her body pressed back against the screen of the door. She opened her mouth to speak when the thought hit her suddenly. Sleepy Hollow, of course...
"The Headless Horseman?"
A small, dry smirk lit up the man's face.
"Well, Lady O'Farland. It seems you've finally caught on."
"But...that was just a book..."
"I beg to differ, my dear." The man's face had suddenly gone hard. Charlotte shook her head. Her grandfather rarely indulged in story books, so it had been ages since she'd actually heard the legend. Ages--since her parents had left.
"No. I want to know what's going on at the Miller's, not some stupid fairy tale--"
"It would be best, Lady O'Farland, if you did not speak with such arrogance." The man, a frown hovering on his brows, stepped back slightly. "Especially when dealing with matters you do not understand." Calming herself rapidly, she pressed her palm to her forehead and closed her eyes.
"All right. Let's examine this logically."
"Logic." He scoffed. "I find logic useless in this sort of predicament--"
"Could you please not interrupt me?!" Charlotte shrieked, out of patience and deep in panic. The man's eyes narrowed, but he said softly,
"As you wish."
"Good." She leaned away from the door and walked the length of the porch to see down the street. "That scream came from the Miller's, I'm pretty sure. I think we better call the police." He sighed impatiently, dropping the blanket and letting his hands fall to his pockets. Charlotte turned to face him. "What now?"
"Do you really think a constable can help you?" His voice had the air of one who spoke to a tiny child.
"Of course!" She threw her hands up in the air. "A policeman has guns! A policeman can stop the criminal and help the Millers and--"
"Sleepy Hollow had constables, Lady O'Farland." The man walked towards her to rest near the front steps. "Back when the town was young, Sleepy Hollow had constables as well. And they could not stop him." She clenched her fists, eyes flicking from her neighbors' house to him.
"If you're talking about the Headless Horseman, I swear I'll break your arm. This is no time to break into a legend of--"
"This is the exact time to tell the legend, Charlotte!" His voice's volume rose greatly. Charlotte jumped. "This is the precise time to educate you of what forces you are dealing with!" Her breathing had become heavy again. Slowly, she sank into the wicker chair and stared at him.
"Go ahead, Mr. Dark and Mysterious," she whispered, shivering once again. The man stooped, picking up the blanket. He stared at the woven fabric hard, then looked up and held out towards her.
"I will tell you what I know," he said, voice equally hushed. "and I pray to God I can help." Charlotte reached and took the quilt, her hand brushing his as she pulled the blanket over her. His hand was cold, cold and hard. Like silver. She hadn't noticed how his eyes were like that too; they had that gleam of ice, that glitter of something that was not quite right. Silver eyes and hands, she thought suddenly. How weird.
The man remained standing, tucking his hands inside his pockets for warmth.
"Back when the town was young, Sleepy Hollow stood alone in the countryside, a mere stitch of thread in the quilt of land. The season Ichabod Crane arrived in the little village was cold and clear; trees reached to the skies with fingers of branches, some bare and some stained with color. He settled in the town rapidly, taking over the role of schoolmaster. He also joined the local posse to act as a constable, as most men felt obligated to do, keeping the womenfolk and children safe.
Crane was an intelligent man, and though he indulged in fanciful stories and whimsical legends, he was a rather frightened man. The stories he read unnerved him, so science and logic became his shield. If they held strong, the evils of the underworld could not harm him.
While attending a party one Halloween, a local man decided Crane was getting too close to the lovely, enigmatic Katrina Van Tassel. Immediately, he brought up the subject of a missing man. Not many people knew this man, but everyone concluded (with their own silly reasons) that this was the work of the Horseman. Crane knew of the legend well, and this discussion excited him. Instead of proving that he was a coward in front of Lady Van Tassel, it brought out the storyteller in him. The local man--Bones, I think his name was--left in a storm of fury, muttering about revenge. His grumblings were unheard, however, and Katrina and Ichabod talked late into the night.
Finally, Crane realized how late it was and that he must hurry home immediately. Before leaving, he promised the charming Lady Van Tassel that he would solve the murder and prove a logical explanation.
'Have no fear, my dear Katrina,' he chuckled, 'the murderer will not have thee. I vow to smite him down for his crime and bring justice to our fair Sleepy Hollow.' And with that, he bid her adieu and rode into the darkened forest."
The man had suddenly grown quiet. Charlotte didn't like the pause. It accentuated the night sounds--the crickets chirping, dogs barking, frogs croaking, a horse running somewhere...sword clanking at the rider's side...
"Go on," she urged. He looked up abruptly, startled by her sharp voice.
"The horse seemed to grow more nervous the deeper they rode, and so did Crane. Every sound seemed infinitely louder. Each insect whistling made him jump. Instead of going back, instead of revealing his apprehension, Crane merely urged the gelding on. But there was another horse in the forest. A stallion of pure black, a horse to match its rider's heart...
That horse approached Ichabod slowly. Atop the steed sat a man, armor covering his body. Except for his head. He had no head...
Crane turned tail and ran, but the feeble pony he rode was no match for the snorting charger behind. The Horseman, the Headless Horseman rode him down that night. He slid the burning metal from its sheath, handling it as if it were no more than a feather, and in one graceful slice--"
"Stop, stop!" Charlotte had drew the blanket so tight around her that her knuckles had turned white. The man stopped midsentence. There was an uncomfortable period of silence.
"I'm sorry if I frightened you."
"It's just...I haven't heard that story since I was little, and..." She swallowed, her eyes flicking down the street. "...you're a very convincing narrator." He smiled ruefully.
"I think I gave you everything you need to know."
"But...what about the Millers? How will I know--"
"You'll know, Lady O'Farland." The man drew his hands from his pockets to clasp them behind his back. "And if what I suspect has happened, then they are beyond help now."
"So I can't do anything?"
"No." Charlotte's insides chilled. The Millers had a little boy, two years old at the most. What if he was... "Forgive me, Lady O'Farland, for forcing such a morbid tale upon you. I fear, however, that you needed to know." He turned slowly and began walking away. Charlotte sat up.
"What? So you give me that big song and dance and that's it?"
"You know enough for now. I will return."
"But--you didn't tell me your name--" He whirled around, and that look was in his eyes again. That silver, untouchable look...
"I gave you enough information! Leave me at peace!"
"All right!" She sat back again. "Go away, then!" The man turned and loped away carefully, like he'd never spoken to Charlotte in his life.
"I bid you farewell, Lady O'Farland. Sweet dreams." Charlotte watched him walk away. His steps were graceful and planned, almost as if he were stepping around land mines. She looked down the street, towards the Millers' again, taking her focus from the man. Had she watched long enough, she would've seen he had one hand rubbing tensely around his neck.
The Warning
Steps fell softly on the newly fallen autumn leaves.
Crunch...crunch...
The steps carried the girl down the beaten path, through the forest of color.
Crunch...crunch...
Trees bent and swayed, submitting to the wind, their brightly hued leaves now tears swirling about.
Crunch...crunch...
She walked along in silence, a pack strung over her shoulder. Scarlet hair whirled about her face, mixing with the reds and oranges and yellows of the leaves.
Crunch...crunch...
Silent she was, and silent she stayed. Until she saw the man.
Crunch--
The girl stopped.
The man was leaning against a tree, leaves twirling and falling at his feet. He was pale, so gaunt and pale. The black of his hair was a shock to the white of his skin, not even the slightest of rose blushing his high cheekbones. Cloaked in darkness, draped in shadows, the man stood there. Then he spoke.
"Be you from Sleepy Hollow?" The girl stared at him, a hand nervously playing with the strap of her bookbag.
"Why?" He smiled slightly, his noble face growing ever more handsome.
"I simply wish to know if you hail from Sleepy Hollow."
"Yes," the girl frowned, backing up a bit, another crunch echoing through the woods. "but I go to school in the town over. But why--"
"'Tis not of importance, My Lady," the man said smoothly, waving an elegant hand. She stayed in her place for a moment before charging forward, on the path to her destination once more.
"If it's not of importance, then why bother me with questions?" The girl kept her eyes on the leaf-strewn ground until he spoke again.
"I wished to warn you, My Lady." She stopped.
"Of what?" The girl turned slowly, meeting eyes with the dark stranger. "And why do you talk so differently?" The man did not even shift as he answered.
"I wished to warn you that the Horseman rides at midnight." He finally stepped out to the path, standing a few feet from where she was. "It is a admonition, my dear. Remember--the Horseman rides at midnight." The man gave her a slight bow, then began walking slowly opposite of her. Then he turned. "I am also from Sleepy Hollow." With a short, mirthless grin, he turned once again. The leaves whirled, jumped, danced...the wind scattered them, sending them adrift. When the girl could see through the cloud of color, the man was gone.
Chapter I
The Meeting
The grandfather clock ticked incessantly in the hallway. A cat slept soundly on top of a chair, the white of its fur causing it to look like a rather interesting doily. The silence wasn't broken, save the occasional turning of a page. Then the door banged open. In she ran, dropping her red bookbag unceremoniously by the foyer closet. The girl tore down the long stretch of hall, white tennis shoes thudding shamelessly on the hardwood floor.
"Grandpa!" She skidded to a stop by a door. Quickly, she seized the brass knob and turned, sticking her head in. "Grandpa!" The cat's blue eyes snapped open and it went toppling off its resting place. The girl obviously had little sympathy for the feline. She charged past it and whipped open yet another door. "Grandpa!" The old man in the study looked up.
"Charlotte, what's wrong?" Panting, the girl sat down in an armchair near him.
"There was a man...and he was on the path...and he talked to me...and..." Charlotte stopped, eyes taking in the title of the book her grandfather held--Studies of Logical Reasoning. She stared at the book for a moment, then shook her head and stood. "Nevermind. It was stupid." Her grandfather frowned after her.
"Wait a minute. You were talking about a man on the path--" The girl turned, resting against the arm of a chair.
"Nevermind, Grandpa. There was a bird on the path, and I thought I saw somebody in the trees." Her eyes drifted down to the cat by her feet, its pristine fur mussed from its fall. "It was a mistake."
"Lottie, it's not my idea of a joke to come running in here, scaring me and Albert out of our minds--" Charlotte scowled at her shoes.
"I hate that cat," she muttered, sending a glare to the disgruntled feline.
"Albert is a nice cat," her grandfather declared indignantly. As if in response, the cat hissed and swatted at Charlotte's white tennis shoes.
"I'm sorry." she mumbled, as much to the floor as to her grandfather.
"It's all right." He ran a hand through his snowy hair before continuing. "Lottie, if there's something wrong, you need to tell me."
"No, Grandpa. Nothing's wrong." Charlotte forced a smile. "My imagination got the best of me." The old man sighed and turned back to his book, spectacled eyes peering at the pages.
"Whatever you say, dear. Just try not to get all riled up so often." The girl's hazel eyes watched him for a moment before she turned and sulked back out to the family room.
"Stupid cat." Charlotte grumbled, her words half-audible. Albert had slipped into the den with her before she shut the door to her grandfather's study. He settled quietly on a footstool, grooming his paws meticulously. The girl sneered at him. "You're always getting me in trouble, you know that? I swear, Grandpa defends you more than me." The cat didn't listen to her; he continued preening. Charlotte forgot about her disgust with Albert and began fiddling absent-mindedly with the twisted ring of silver around her thumb. "There was a man out there," she mumbled, rotating the ring slowly. Then she frowned. "And I was not all riled up."
"Charlotte O'Farland?" She nodded, pushing back a strand of pesky red hair. The delivery man held out a clipboard and a pen. "Sign, please." Charlotte took the board and signed it with a flourish. He handed her a very small package. "There. Have a nice day." She nodded half-heartedly and closed the door, turning to the living room. The return address read, 'Mr. and Mrs. Adrian O'Farland; Devon, England.' Charlotte scowled at the label and ripped off the brown paper. Revealed was a small green box. She took off the lid and set it down on the table, sitting down on the couch. Inside lay a delicate silver cross on a thin chain. Charlotte inhaled sharply and drew it from the cotton. The cross held an elliptical diamond in its center. Her fingertip stroked the stone, but then she noticed the note in the bottom of the box. Carefully setting down the necklace, she pulled out the paper and unfolded it.
Dearest Charlotte,
We are so dreadfully sorry that we could not be there for your birthday. Next year, darling. Your sweet sixteen will be perfect. Your mother and I have been terribly busy lately with business that could not be avoided. We promise, little one. We will be there next year.
All our love,
Mum and Da
Charlotte crumpled up the note in an angry fist. They always made excuses. Always. They never just came out and said that they hadn't come, they wouldn't come, they never would come. Business was always a barrier between the uncomfortable subject. Glowering, she tossed the note at the trash can and shoved the necklace back in its box. If her parents couldn't give her the thing face to face, she wouldn't wear it.
Her grandfather hobbled in, weathered hand patting Albert on the head as he passed.
"Lottie, what are you doing out here?" Charlotte tucked the box quickly behind a throw pillow.
"Just watching television," she said casually. He frowned.
"The television's not turned on, sweetheart." She glanced at the blank screen, then laughed.
"Imagine. Here I am, staring at a TV that's not turned on and I thought I was watching an extremely dark episode of 'Dawson's Creek'." The old man winced, touching his left leg, then sat down.
"Charlotte, I don't like it when you lie to me." She looked at the floor, then back up to him.
"Sorry, Grandpa Vincent." Vincent O'Farland opened his mouth to speak, but his words were stopped by a groan. Charlotte jumped up. "Is your leg bothering you?"
"Only in cold weather, you know that," he chuckled. Then he cringed again. "And there's a frost coming on." She hurried to the kitchen.
"I'll get you some ice."
"No," O'Farland began, standing. "I think I'll just go to bed. It'll be better in the morning." She closed the refrigerator door and ran to his side.
"Not if it's colder in the morning." The old man chuckled and hugged her gently.
"Don't worry so much about me, little Lottie. I'll be fine by morning." Slowly, he limped towards the end of the hall. "Good night." Charlotte bit her lip, then called after him,
"Don't forget!" His hand rested on the doorknob.
"Forget what?"
"May the morning bring smiles, may smiles bring love, may smiles bring angels from heaven above." Her grandfather chuckled.
"Of course. Good night, little Lottie." He twisted the knob and disappeared into his bedroom.
Charlotte stared at the door for a few minutes. How could her grandfather have forgotten about their ritual? Every night they said it, just before he went to bed. And he forgot. Quietly, she unlocked the door and slid outside to sit on the front steps. The night was cold and clear, stars twinkling above and the moon shining bright. Charlotte toyed with her red hair and watched the trees sway gently with the wind.
Everything was suddenly so confusing. She never saw her parents, she wasn't accepted in school, her grandfather was aching and forgetting...and the man. Her wandering thoughts brought the memory back with a snap. That man. What had he been doing there? How did he know she was from Sleepy Hollow? Charlotte was suddenly and fully aware of the cold. She scurried inside to get a blanket, then resettled on the white whicker chair near the porch light. She drew the blanket tight around her, keeping out the icy chills. The moon moved slowly through the dark sky, and before she knew it, she was asleep.
Hoofbeats...She could hear hoofbeats...
They were loud, angry...but they were not clumsy...No, the hoofbeats were smooth and elegant, but there was wrath behind them...rage...fury as hot as hell's fire...
The moon hung heavy in the velvet sky, a huge white eye watching them all...
Then there was the horse...
With a whicker of vehemence, the steed went charging down the street...instead of dirt, the hooves hit blacktop...
The rider didn't even use the reigns...the horse knew where they were going...Into the driveway they charged...the horse stopped immediately...the rider climbed down and walked with harsh, sharp steps into the house...There was a shout, a scream, a slice...
And silence...
Out marched the rider, hoisting himself back into the saddle...and off he rode into the dark night, his work accomplished...he was without mercy...He set out to do the deed, he reached his destination, and then the deed was done...this was his way...
This was the Horseman...
She leapt from sleep with a cry, nearly falling from her chair. The blanket had already slipped off, but in her sleep she had perspired. The sweat covering her forehead chilled her body as the cold wind hit her. Quickly, Charlotte looked around to find the warm quilt. Her eyes fell on the blanket lying on the front walk--right by the man's feet.
He'd come back.
She was afraid to go get the comforter, so she just sat there in the wicker chair and shivered. After a moment, he bent and picked up the blanket.
"Is this yours?" The man canted his head slightly, hiding a chuckle. "You look rather cold." Charlotte clapped her hands to her bare arms to tame the goosebumps.
"What are you doing here?" He took a few steps towards her, but stopped when her eyes widened.
"I wish to say I am here on holiday, but I'm afraid business brings me to your door." She wrinkled her nose.
"Business? What do you mean?" The man's lips twisted into something of a smile.
"Ah, but it is not proper for me to reveal my secrets until you unveil yours." Charlotte frowned, eyeing the quilt in his hands longingly.
"What secrets?" The man stepped a little closer.
"It is not proper for the lady to ask all the questions either. However, I will grant you the answer. Your name?" She lowered her eyes. She wasn't sure whether she should tell this man her name, but it seemed to flow easily from her mouth.
"Charlotte O'Farland." He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply, as if her name were a sweet perfume.
"Charlotte...a name as lovely as the girl who bears it." She blushed, though her face was barely visible in the dark night.
"Um...thank you. Your name?" The man kept a steady gaze with her.
"All in good time, Lady O'Farland." Suddenly alarmed at how dark it had gotten, Charlotte straightened.
"Oh, gosh, what time is it? Grandpa'll kill me if he catches me out here--" Her words were cut off by a shriek. The man smiled.
"'Tis midnight, Lady O'Farland. The Horseman rides."
Chapter II
The Telling
Charlotte stifled a small cry and jumped to her feet. Her breathing was irregular as she pointed down the street, jabbing the darkness with her finger.
"What...what was that?" The man cocked his head.
"What are you talking about?"
"That...scream. Who screamed?" She craned her neck to see around the porch. "I think it came from the Miller's--"
"I told you, Lady O'Farland--" Charlotte turned quickly, seeing that he was now standing on the porch.
"Get away from me!" She scrambled back against the front door. "What's going on?" The man's face was solemn as he watched her for a moment.
"I told you before, Lady O'Farland," he said very quietly. "the Horseman rides." She swallowed, then swallowed again.
"What, exactly, does that mean?" He continued to stare at her gravely.
"Make of it what you will." the man said, fingering the designs on the forgotten quilt. Charlotte kept her body pressed back against the screen of the door. She opened her mouth to speak when the thought hit her suddenly. Sleepy Hollow, of course...
"The Headless Horseman?"
A small, dry smirk lit up the man's face.
"Well, Lady O'Farland. It seems you've finally caught on."
"But...that was just a book..."
"I beg to differ, my dear." The man's face had suddenly gone hard. Charlotte shook her head. Her grandfather rarely indulged in story books, so it had been ages since she'd actually heard the legend. Ages--since her parents had left.
"No. I want to know what's going on at the Miller's, not some stupid fairy tale--"
"It would be best, Lady O'Farland, if you did not speak with such arrogance." The man, a frown hovering on his brows, stepped back slightly. "Especially when dealing with matters you do not understand." Calming herself rapidly, she pressed her palm to her forehead and closed her eyes.
"All right. Let's examine this logically."
"Logic." He scoffed. "I find logic useless in this sort of predicament--"
"Could you please not interrupt me?!" Charlotte shrieked, out of patience and deep in panic. The man's eyes narrowed, but he said softly,
"As you wish."
"Good." She leaned away from the door and walked the length of the porch to see down the street. "That scream came from the Miller's, I'm pretty sure. I think we better call the police." He sighed impatiently, dropping the blanket and letting his hands fall to his pockets. Charlotte turned to face him. "What now?"
"Do you really think a constable can help you?" His voice had the air of one who spoke to a tiny child.
"Of course!" She threw her hands up in the air. "A policeman has guns! A policeman can stop the criminal and help the Millers and--"
"Sleepy Hollow had constables, Lady O'Farland." The man walked towards her to rest near the front steps. "Back when the town was young, Sleepy Hollow had constables as well. And they could not stop him." She clenched her fists, eyes flicking from her neighbors' house to him.
"If you're talking about the Headless Horseman, I swear I'll break your arm. This is no time to break into a legend of--"
"This is the exact time to tell the legend, Charlotte!" His voice's volume rose greatly. Charlotte jumped. "This is the precise time to educate you of what forces you are dealing with!" Her breathing had become heavy again. Slowly, she sank into the wicker chair and stared at him.
"Go ahead, Mr. Dark and Mysterious," she whispered, shivering once again. The man stooped, picking up the blanket. He stared at the woven fabric hard, then looked up and held out towards her.
"I will tell you what I know," he said, voice equally hushed. "and I pray to God I can help." Charlotte reached and took the quilt, her hand brushing his as she pulled the blanket over her. His hand was cold, cold and hard. Like silver. She hadn't noticed how his eyes were like that too; they had that gleam of ice, that glitter of something that was not quite right. Silver eyes and hands, she thought suddenly. How weird.
The man remained standing, tucking his hands inside his pockets for warmth.
"Back when the town was young, Sleepy Hollow stood alone in the countryside, a mere stitch of thread in the quilt of land. The season Ichabod Crane arrived in the little village was cold and clear; trees reached to the skies with fingers of branches, some bare and some stained with color. He settled in the town rapidly, taking over the role of schoolmaster. He also joined the local posse to act as a constable, as most men felt obligated to do, keeping the womenfolk and children safe.
Crane was an intelligent man, and though he indulged in fanciful stories and whimsical legends, he was a rather frightened man. The stories he read unnerved him, so science and logic became his shield. If they held strong, the evils of the underworld could not harm him.
While attending a party one Halloween, a local man decided Crane was getting too close to the lovely, enigmatic Katrina Van Tassel. Immediately, he brought up the subject of a missing man. Not many people knew this man, but everyone concluded (with their own silly reasons) that this was the work of the Horseman. Crane knew of the legend well, and this discussion excited him. Instead of proving that he was a coward in front of Lady Van Tassel, it brought out the storyteller in him. The local man--Bones, I think his name was--left in a storm of fury, muttering about revenge. His grumblings were unheard, however, and Katrina and Ichabod talked late into the night.
Finally, Crane realized how late it was and that he must hurry home immediately. Before leaving, he promised the charming Lady Van Tassel that he would solve the murder and prove a logical explanation.
'Have no fear, my dear Katrina,' he chuckled, 'the murderer will not have thee. I vow to smite him down for his crime and bring justice to our fair Sleepy Hollow.' And with that, he bid her adieu and rode into the darkened forest."
The man had suddenly grown quiet. Charlotte didn't like the pause. It accentuated the night sounds--the crickets chirping, dogs barking, frogs croaking, a horse running somewhere...sword clanking at the rider's side...
"Go on," she urged. He looked up abruptly, startled by her sharp voice.
"The horse seemed to grow more nervous the deeper they rode, and so did Crane. Every sound seemed infinitely louder. Each insect whistling made him jump. Instead of going back, instead of revealing his apprehension, Crane merely urged the gelding on. But there was another horse in the forest. A stallion of pure black, a horse to match its rider's heart...
That horse approached Ichabod slowly. Atop the steed sat a man, armor covering his body. Except for his head. He had no head...
Crane turned tail and ran, but the feeble pony he rode was no match for the snorting charger behind. The Horseman, the Headless Horseman rode him down that night. He slid the burning metal from its sheath, handling it as if it were no more than a feather, and in one graceful slice--"
"Stop, stop!" Charlotte had drew the blanket so tight around her that her knuckles had turned white. The man stopped midsentence. There was an uncomfortable period of silence.
"I'm sorry if I frightened you."
"It's just...I haven't heard that story since I was little, and..." She swallowed, her eyes flicking down the street. "...you're a very convincing narrator." He smiled ruefully.
"I think I gave you everything you need to know."
"But...what about the Millers? How will I know--"
"You'll know, Lady O'Farland." The man drew his hands from his pockets to clasp them behind his back. "And if what I suspect has happened, then they are beyond help now."
"So I can't do anything?"
"No." Charlotte's insides chilled. The Millers had a little boy, two years old at the most. What if he was... "Forgive me, Lady O'Farland, for forcing such a morbid tale upon you. I fear, however, that you needed to know." He turned slowly and began walking away. Charlotte sat up.
"What? So you give me that big song and dance and that's it?"
"You know enough for now. I will return."
"But--you didn't tell me your name--" He whirled around, and that look was in his eyes again. That silver, untouchable look...
"I gave you enough information! Leave me at peace!"
"All right!" She sat back again. "Go away, then!" The man turned and loped away carefully, like he'd never spoken to Charlotte in his life.
"I bid you farewell, Lady O'Farland. Sweet dreams." Charlotte watched him walk away. His steps were graceful and planned, almost as if he were stepping around land mines. She looked down the street, towards the Millers' again, taking her focus from the man. Had she watched long enough, she would've seen he had one hand rubbing tensely around his neck.