A/n this follows canon to the end of season two. There are some AU things thrown in. This will not be completely serious or dark as this chapter may appear. I will be injecting my own humor into this and hope you enjoy it.

Disclaimer: I own my own characters. Nothing of CM, Washington Irving, or Sleepy Hollow is mine. No copyright infringement is intended.

Blood calling blood.

The black clouds scuttled across the full and blood red moon. The wind pushed the stalks in the cornfield into frenzy. The sound in the night was like thousands of voices whispering on the wind. Shadows leapt and retreated from the trees around the road, making it seem as though the whole of the country was infested with highway men waiting to steal the baubles of rich women, and leave the rich husbands in bright crimson blood on the ground

The meal he'd eaten so gleefully just hours before, was turning to pap in his stomach. His hands and forehead were sweating. He urged the broken down horse faster through the cool, fall night. It was past midnight now, and the endless chirping of the crickets and cicada were giving him a headache. He decided to sing. His woefully out of tune voice began to quaver on the wind.

The horse galloped a little faster and he urged the beast on. This was a night for witches and hobgoblins, he was sure of it. Even the smell of the wind in the pine trees couldn't settle him as it usually did. There was a terrible sense of foreboding in his bones that he couldn't shake, and it got stronger with every step the horse took.

Something snapped behind him and he jerked back on the horse. The horse snorted loudly, its breath disappearing on the wind. The pace of the animal slowed even as he urged it forward again. He looked behind him and saw nothing but shadows and darkness.

"Get up Gunpowder." He told the stubborn animal.

His breathing began to increase when more snapping, and what sounded like footsteps came from his right in the woods. The "footsteps" increased and moved ahead of him.

"Come on Gunpowder… you stubborn animal. Get moving!" He whispered urgently to the horse.

The animal ignored his heel in its side, and maintained its pace down the dirt road. The moonlight waxed and waned in front of him, the crimson flashes were poor lighting of his path. He squinted ahead and saw a dark shape in front of him.

"Who's there… show yourself," He called as bravely as he could, his voice cracking.

The black shape did not move as he drew closer. Should he turn back and find another path to the farm he was staying at that week? No… he was almost there, he would go forward. His heart was leaping in his chest, and he was finding it difficult to breathe.

The wind whipped up the leaves of the trees and shook them hard. He couldn't hear anything above the din of the trees and the constant song of crickets. Leaves blew in shapes in front of him and he was nearly distracted from the thing in the road ahead of him. The moon was hiding behind the black clouds again.

He was nearly blind when he drew level to the shape. The horse was silent, and the figure that rode the black animal was still. Something told him not to speak to the apparition. He'd read about spirits and if he didn't speak to it, perhaps it would go away on its own.

His horse clomped past at its own sedate pace. The figure on the other horse didn't seem to realize he was there and he let out a relieved breath. He kicked his heels into the horse once more, and the animal actually obeyed him and picked up his pace a bit. He began to relax, as it didn't appear that the apparition behind him was following him.

There was a sudden sound of horse hooves behind him. The rider on the horse was approaching at a run. He urged his horse to go faster, and Gunpowder finally decided that he needed to move. He began to run down the dimly lit path. The rider behind him was silent, but for the pounding of the horse's shod hooves on the hardened dirt of the pathway.

"Get up Gunpowder, the road to the church is just ahead."

The partygoers that night had assured him that reaching the other side of the bridge would save him from the headless horseman. He was sure that was who was chasing him through the cool and windy night.

He kicked the horse again and leaned over the horse's neck. The horse was running flat out and he could hear the straining of its breath through its nostrils. His own breath was coming in gasps that he could see intermittently when the moon made an appearance.

The saddle was beginning to slip around. He was almost thrown to the ground, so he threw his arms around the animal's neck and shouted at him to run, run. The running horse behind him seemed to be right on top of him. He could hear the animal's breathing; feel its hot breath on his neck. He kicked the horse again and again.

They gained the road and the horse ran to the top of the hill, and clattered across the covered bridge. He had to reach the other side and he would be okay. He gave a shout of triumph when the horse passed the end of the bridge to the other side.

Gunpowder stopped abruptly nearly pitching him to the ground. He turned and saw the figure in black and his horse just feet away from him. The moon freed itself from the cloud cover and he saw the figure hurl his dis-embodied head at him. He tried to dodge the missile, but it connected with his head with a tremendous thud. Pain such as he'd never known slammed through his head, and he fell senseless to the ground as the horseman passed by like a demon on the wind.

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Reid shot up out of sleep, his heart pounding hard enough to break out of his ribs. His head felt as though it would explode with pain. He leapt out of bed and rushed to the bathroom where he was violently ill. He sat on his knees for a moment waiting for the nausea and the pain to pass. When some minutes had passed, and he thought he could move again, he got up from the tiled floor and flushed the toilet.

His mouth and throat stung with the taste of stomach acid and fear. He grabbed the mouth wash and rinsed out his mouth. If only he could rid himself from the specter that had persisted in haunting his dreams every night for the last three weeks.

He looked in the mirror and saw that the dark shadows under his eyes were deeper and more pronounced than ever. What was he going to tell Hotch this time? The senior agent had been questioning him about the shadows under his eyes, and encouraging him to talk to Gideon again. He shut off the lights in the bathroom and stumbled back to bed.

What was going on? These weren't ordinary nightmares. He felt the blow to the head the man in the dream took as though it would cleave his own head in two. The pain was worse than anything he'd ever felt. He wanted to know more, he had to know more, but his library and internet searches were fruitless. As far as anyone could tell him the headless horseman was a myth, a clever story written by Washington Irving in the beginning of the 19th century. It couldn't be real. If it was, why was he reliving it in his dreams?

He turned on the light and saw that it was four thirty in the morning. He might as well get up; he wouldn't get back to sleep before his alarm sounded in an hour anyway.

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The old men stood in a circle in the moonlight. The Guardians as they were called were chanting over a fire in the center of their circle. There were herbs and flowers around them in a protective circle. The eldest of them, Henry Van Tassel, threw white powder into the fire. It glowed green for a moment, before dying back to an orange and yellow color. Shadows danced around them and blocked out their faces from one another.

"It's not working." One of the men said as the ritual ended some time later.

"Patience… he was not brought up here in our ways. His heart is one of science and rationality. He will resist the call, but in the end… blood will win out, and he will come to us."

"I hope you're right Van Tassel. We must have the sacrifice, or the consequences will be more terrible than we can imagine. The black haired man pushed back his hood and fell into step with the others.

The moon shone red overhead.

A/n most of the facts about Sleepy Hollow and the headless horseman are taken from Wikapedia and the story of Washington Irving. I give him credit for the brilliance of the legend he created. I'm trying to be as accurate as I can about the legend and the town, so please feel free to correct me if I mess up. The name of the horse and other details are also taken from a radio dramatization I have on CD of the "Legend of Sleepy Hollow."