Chapter VI
The Returning
The rain outside had lessened to a soft drizzle. Rubbing her shoulders to generate some heat, Charlotte went back
into the study. The French doors revealed the garden, gentle drops falling from the sky. The water had come too late, she
knew; the garden was dying. Frost had already reached the roots of the flowers and crept up slowly, shriveling leaves and
turning petals black. Charlotte turned to an armchair and settled herself down into it. The death would come soon. As sure as
the roses would lose their blush and wilt, there would be another loss of life in Sleepy Hollow.
"Charlotte?" She whirled, thinking it was Isaac. No, her grandfather stood in the doorway. "Are you all right, honey?"
He held a single shopping bag. Charlotte pushed back a strand of red hair and nodded.
"Yeah, Grandpa. Of course." She straightened and tried to look interested. "What did you buy?" O'Farland glanced down at his
sack.
"Oh, this? I just got a winter coat. The snow will be upon us early this year. But," he admitted with a sigh, "I think I'll have to
take it back. I might be allergic to the material."
"Don't worry. If you need to, I'll be fine by myself." Vincent hobbled further into the room and placed the bag on the desk.
"I know you will." The pile of books outside the door suddenly caught his attention. "When did those--"
"Oh, those?" Charlotte hurried out and gathered them into her arms. "I--uh--decided to take up a little reading." He took one
from the top of the stack and rose a brow.
"Intestinal Tracts and You?" She laughed nervously.
"Yeah. I thought I should...enlighten myself."
"On intestines?" Charlotte snatched the book from him and began putting them back on the shelves.
"Yeah. You can never know too much." O'Farland squinted at her through his spectacles.
"Perhaps one can know too much on innards. But I could be wrong." He looked over the spines of the writings. Finding one that
suited him, her grandfather slid it out and made his way over to the desk. "You may stay in here and read with me if you like."
"I don't think so, Grandpa." Charlotte put the last book on the shelf. "I have a bad headache. I think I'll take a nap." She headed
for the door.
"Charlotte." Vincent's voice had an edge to it.
"Yes, Grandpa?"
"You've been acting rather strange lately. Are you sure you're all right?" She sighed lightly.
"Yes... I'm fine. I just have a headache." O'Farland watched her back for a moment, then turned his gaze down to the chosen
reading.
"All right. I believe you, kitten. Have a nice nap."
Charlotte collapsed on the bed in her room.
"God... I swear, Grandpa knows more about what's going on than I do." Albert prowled in and leapt up on the bed, but instead
of shoving him off, the girl flopped back with a moan. "This is just too weird," she muttered, staring at the white crunchy ceiling
as if it had some kind of answer. "I'm overreacting. There isn't going to be any murder. There isn't going to be anything out of
the ordinary at all." Albert settled down at the end of the bed, not listening to a word Charlotte was saying. "I'm just going to go
to sleep and everything will be normal." Having said that, she closed her hazel eyes tightly and waited for slumber.
*The night was cold, black, and silent... Large flakes of snow fell from the sky while the shadow watched at the edge of
the street... The slayer would come again...
The very twilight seemed to hold its breath while the ground vibrated... vibrated with the weight of thundering hoofbeats...
He came...
The mercenary arrived in a cloud of disturbed powder, an enraged neigh eliciting from the horse... A new household he traveled
to this time, a house of new prey... Again his steed was stopped... again he dismounted... His very steps melted the snow
underfoot, nearly scorching the ground below... A door went crashing down... A sword was drawn from its sheath... A high,
wavering shriek...
Utter stillness...
The stallion pawed the ground impatiently, and out he strode... After mounting with ease, the reigns were given a sharp snap...
But no command was needed, for off stormed Daredevil, the Horseman holding tight to his new treasure...
From the street watched the man...
He shook his head in dejection, then turned and disappeared into the forest...*
Two eyes. Two huge blue eyes stared right at her. Charlotte shrieked and shoved the cat off of her chest.
"You stupid, stupid, *stupid* cat! Argh!" Albert flailed wildly in the air before landing on all fours. "Argh! A-argh!" She shook her
head, trying to hide the apprehension the dream had caused. "What is wrong with you, you stupid cat?!" Albert mewed
indignantly. A pillow went sailing past his head. "Get out, you miserable excuse for a throw rug!" He sped out of the room,
hissing and spitting like a demon. Charlotte watched him leave, then pressed a palm to her forehead. Sweat. She was suddenly
alarmed at the lack of light, so she turned to the clock. "What? Seven thirty?" It was half past seven. There was slight comfort.
"He couldn't have killed anyone yet," she murmured. "It's not midnight. Isaac said not until midnight." There was a short knock
on her door. "Come in."
"Lottie, honey, are you all right?" It was Vincent, whose face popped in shortly after speaking.
"Yeah, I'm fine--" He walked the rest of the way in.
"That's what you said earlier. Kitten, I'm worried about you. You slept for six and a half hours. What's wrong with you?"
Charlotte frowned down at her bedspread.
"I don't know." There was a duration of quiet. Then, trying to change the subject, Charlotte looked up. "Why do you call me
kitten sometimes?" Vincent blinked, then sat down at the end of her bed.
"Well... I heard my mother call my younger sister that every now and then. It was some kind of family name from her side..."
Pausing to think a moment, O'Farland then got up and patted her shoulder. "Come on, we'll go look at the family tree and figure
this out."
Her grandfather tottered over to the desk and opened a drawer. Inside lay a leather bound collection of pictures.
O'Farland pulled it out and sat next to Charlotte gingerly.
"This is the photo album. See?" He lifted the front cover and pointed to a rather large depiction of an elm tree, names and dates
growing off the branches. "There's the newest addition. That's you." In curvy writing was the name Charlotte Lucinda O'Farland,
1983. Below that lay her mother, Sela Freedom Gaynor, then her father, Adrian Hunter O'Farland, and past that generations of
people, including grandfather, her late grandmother... Spans of time, all the way back to the revolutionary years.
"What name are we looking for?"
"Something that would explain the nickname 'kitten'. I remember, your great grandmother called your great aunt 'kitten' and
'kitty' all the time..." He ran a gnarled finger all over the page. "Perhaps a Katie, or a Kathleen."
"What's that?" Charlotte piped up, pointing at tiny cursive near the bottom. O'Farland squinted through his glasses.
"Uh... That was my mother's great, great, great--" He took a breath. "--great grandmother. Dutch." Charlotte strained to see, but
couldn't make out the words.
"I can't read it. What does it say?"
"Ah, it says, 'Katherine'--no, no... 'Katriona'? No, no..." Out of patience, she took the book into her own lap.
"Let me see." She inspected the writing carefully. A great, great aunt named Bidelia, a long lost cousin called Gareth... Then
she shoved it away. "Grandpa, my headache's back. Really bad. Can you get me an aspirin?" Looking confused, Vincent
heaved himself from the chair.
"Of course, Lottie," he murmured, exiting the study. As soon as he left, Charlotte seized the album again and held it close to her
face.
"No, that can't be right. It's wrong. It's *wrong*." At the very bottom of the page read the name of Charlotte's long ago ancestor:
Katrina Rebecca Van Tassel, 1781.
The Returning
The rain outside had lessened to a soft drizzle. Rubbing her shoulders to generate some heat, Charlotte went back
into the study. The French doors revealed the garden, gentle drops falling from the sky. The water had come too late, she
knew; the garden was dying. Frost had already reached the roots of the flowers and crept up slowly, shriveling leaves and
turning petals black. Charlotte turned to an armchair and settled herself down into it. The death would come soon. As sure as
the roses would lose their blush and wilt, there would be another loss of life in Sleepy Hollow.
"Charlotte?" She whirled, thinking it was Isaac. No, her grandfather stood in the doorway. "Are you all right, honey?"
He held a single shopping bag. Charlotte pushed back a strand of red hair and nodded.
"Yeah, Grandpa. Of course." She straightened and tried to look interested. "What did you buy?" O'Farland glanced down at his
sack.
"Oh, this? I just got a winter coat. The snow will be upon us early this year. But," he admitted with a sigh, "I think I'll have to
take it back. I might be allergic to the material."
"Don't worry. If you need to, I'll be fine by myself." Vincent hobbled further into the room and placed the bag on the desk.
"I know you will." The pile of books outside the door suddenly caught his attention. "When did those--"
"Oh, those?" Charlotte hurried out and gathered them into her arms. "I--uh--decided to take up a little reading." He took one
from the top of the stack and rose a brow.
"Intestinal Tracts and You?" She laughed nervously.
"Yeah. I thought I should...enlighten myself."
"On intestines?" Charlotte snatched the book from him and began putting them back on the shelves.
"Yeah. You can never know too much." O'Farland squinted at her through his spectacles.
"Perhaps one can know too much on innards. But I could be wrong." He looked over the spines of the writings. Finding one that
suited him, her grandfather slid it out and made his way over to the desk. "You may stay in here and read with me if you like."
"I don't think so, Grandpa." Charlotte put the last book on the shelf. "I have a bad headache. I think I'll take a nap." She headed
for the door.
"Charlotte." Vincent's voice had an edge to it.
"Yes, Grandpa?"
"You've been acting rather strange lately. Are you sure you're all right?" She sighed lightly.
"Yes... I'm fine. I just have a headache." O'Farland watched her back for a moment, then turned his gaze down to the chosen
reading.
"All right. I believe you, kitten. Have a nice nap."
Charlotte collapsed on the bed in her room.
"God... I swear, Grandpa knows more about what's going on than I do." Albert prowled in and leapt up on the bed, but instead
of shoving him off, the girl flopped back with a moan. "This is just too weird," she muttered, staring at the white crunchy ceiling
as if it had some kind of answer. "I'm overreacting. There isn't going to be any murder. There isn't going to be anything out of
the ordinary at all." Albert settled down at the end of the bed, not listening to a word Charlotte was saying. "I'm just going to go
to sleep and everything will be normal." Having said that, she closed her hazel eyes tightly and waited for slumber.
*The night was cold, black, and silent... Large flakes of snow fell from the sky while the shadow watched at the edge of
the street... The slayer would come again...
The very twilight seemed to hold its breath while the ground vibrated... vibrated with the weight of thundering hoofbeats...
He came...
The mercenary arrived in a cloud of disturbed powder, an enraged neigh eliciting from the horse... A new household he traveled
to this time, a house of new prey... Again his steed was stopped... again he dismounted... His very steps melted the snow
underfoot, nearly scorching the ground below... A door went crashing down... A sword was drawn from its sheath... A high,
wavering shriek...
Utter stillness...
The stallion pawed the ground impatiently, and out he strode... After mounting with ease, the reigns were given a sharp snap...
But no command was needed, for off stormed Daredevil, the Horseman holding tight to his new treasure...
From the street watched the man...
He shook his head in dejection, then turned and disappeared into the forest...*
Two eyes. Two huge blue eyes stared right at her. Charlotte shrieked and shoved the cat off of her chest.
"You stupid, stupid, *stupid* cat! Argh!" Albert flailed wildly in the air before landing on all fours. "Argh! A-argh!" She shook her
head, trying to hide the apprehension the dream had caused. "What is wrong with you, you stupid cat?!" Albert mewed
indignantly. A pillow went sailing past his head. "Get out, you miserable excuse for a throw rug!" He sped out of the room,
hissing and spitting like a demon. Charlotte watched him leave, then pressed a palm to her forehead. Sweat. She was suddenly
alarmed at the lack of light, so she turned to the clock. "What? Seven thirty?" It was half past seven. There was slight comfort.
"He couldn't have killed anyone yet," she murmured. "It's not midnight. Isaac said not until midnight." There was a short knock
on her door. "Come in."
"Lottie, honey, are you all right?" It was Vincent, whose face popped in shortly after speaking.
"Yeah, I'm fine--" He walked the rest of the way in.
"That's what you said earlier. Kitten, I'm worried about you. You slept for six and a half hours. What's wrong with you?"
Charlotte frowned down at her bedspread.
"I don't know." There was a duration of quiet. Then, trying to change the subject, Charlotte looked up. "Why do you call me
kitten sometimes?" Vincent blinked, then sat down at the end of her bed.
"Well... I heard my mother call my younger sister that every now and then. It was some kind of family name from her side..."
Pausing to think a moment, O'Farland then got up and patted her shoulder. "Come on, we'll go look at the family tree and figure
this out."
Her grandfather tottered over to the desk and opened a drawer. Inside lay a leather bound collection of pictures.
O'Farland pulled it out and sat next to Charlotte gingerly.
"This is the photo album. See?" He lifted the front cover and pointed to a rather large depiction of an elm tree, names and dates
growing off the branches. "There's the newest addition. That's you." In curvy writing was the name Charlotte Lucinda O'Farland,
1983. Below that lay her mother, Sela Freedom Gaynor, then her father, Adrian Hunter O'Farland, and past that generations of
people, including grandfather, her late grandmother... Spans of time, all the way back to the revolutionary years.
"What name are we looking for?"
"Something that would explain the nickname 'kitten'. I remember, your great grandmother called your great aunt 'kitten' and
'kitty' all the time..." He ran a gnarled finger all over the page. "Perhaps a Katie, or a Kathleen."
"What's that?" Charlotte piped up, pointing at tiny cursive near the bottom. O'Farland squinted through his glasses.
"Uh... That was my mother's great, great, great--" He took a breath. "--great grandmother. Dutch." Charlotte strained to see, but
couldn't make out the words.
"I can't read it. What does it say?"
"Ah, it says, 'Katherine'--no, no... 'Katriona'? No, no..." Out of patience, she took the book into her own lap.
"Let me see." She inspected the writing carefully. A great, great aunt named Bidelia, a long lost cousin called Gareth... Then
she shoved it away. "Grandpa, my headache's back. Really bad. Can you get me an aspirin?" Looking confused, Vincent
heaved himself from the chair.
"Of course, Lottie," he murmured, exiting the study. As soon as he left, Charlotte seized the album again and held it close to her
face.
"No, that can't be right. It's wrong. It's *wrong*." At the very bottom of the page read the name of Charlotte's long ago ancestor:
Katrina Rebecca Van Tassel, 1781.