Chapter 2: Into the Valley
The wind bites sharp as Steve stands at the edge of the cliff, looking down into the valley. They're in a remote part of the European countryside, views of rolling green hills and dense forest through the middle of the valley. The air smells faintly of damp earth and distant pine.
An SSR tent city has been set up on the cliffside to monitor the mission, in an old abandoned castle, the roof collapsed and the walls crumbling. It provides some protection from the wind chill, and a safe space to hide.
The hum of activity around him is constant—soldiers, agents, technicians all going about their work, but it's the stillness of the landscape that makes Steve uneasy. A silence, thick with foreboding, rests over the land as if it has been untouched by time. The trees surrounding the base seem to reach for the sky, their branches twisted, like silent sentinels watching from afar.
Bucky steps up beside him, glancing over at Steve with a half-smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"Cold," Bucky mutters, adjusting his navy padded jacket. The chill has a way of cutting through the thick fabric, biting into their skin.
Steve nods in agreement, his breath a visible cloud in the frosty air. "Yeah, but it's not the weather that's got me on edge."
Bucky's gaze shifts over the landscape, the small European village visible in the distance. It looks peaceful from this far off—a smattering of cottages, winding cobblestone streets, and a tall church steeple poking through the trees. But there's an unsettling stillness about it all, as if the town is hiding secrets buried deep within its roots.
The castle they're borrowing, located just outside the town of Sleepy Hollow, feels like a prison, even though it's meant to be a place of safety. Tall stone walls surround the perimeter, and armed guards stand watch at every corner, their eyes trained on the horizon. Even the buildings, run down and once functional, are oppressive, their cold stone structures reflecting the harshness of the military.
There's something eerie about the entire place.
"You think we'll find anything here?" Steve's voice is low, hesitant.
Bucky doesn't answer right away. He seems distracted, eyes flickering over the town, as though searching for something in the distance. "I'm not sure. The reports from headquarters were vague. All we know is they want us to investigate something 'odd.' Sounded like Phillips was telling us a whole bunch of poppycock. And that's all we're getting."
A chill runs down Steve's spine. He doesn't like 'odd.' In his line of work, 'odd' usually means something sinister, something they won't be prepared for.
The truck rumbles to a stop beside them, and the back door swings open with a squeal. The driver, a young soldier with a grim expression, doesn't speak as he hops out and gives them a sharp salute.
"We've got orders," the soldier says, his voice tight. "You're to head into the village. There's a man waiting for you. He's supposed to be expecting you."
Steve raises an eyebrow. "A man? Who?"
The soldier shakes his head. "I don't know, sir. I just drive. But he'll be expecting you."
The door to the truck slams shut behind them, and Bucky turns toward Steve. His lips twist into a grin, but there's no humour in it. "Ready for a little town charm, Rogers?"
Steve chuckles lightly, but the sound doesn't quite carry the weight it normally would. "What do you think?"
They climb into the back of the truck, the Commandos following them, the rough wood of the bed biting into their legs. The engine roars to life as the driver accelerates, kicking up dust and gravel as they leave the SSR base behind.
The road that leads into the town is narrow, lined with thick trees that seem to close in around them, casting long shadows over the path. The fog is heavy now, seeping in from the edges of the road, as if it's being pulled into the very heart of the village.
Bucky leans back against the side of the truck, arms crossed. He takes a long look at the town as it draws nearer, the twisted spires of the old church visible above the tree line. "Feels like we're being led into a trap," he mutters.
Steve remains silent, the familiar tension settling deep in his chest. He's been sent on enough missions to recognise when something feels off. But there's no way out of this one. They've been given orders, and they'll follow them.
The truck pulls up to the village square, where cobblestones glisten under the low-hanging mist. The town looks practically untouched by modernity, aside from the cars and the streetlights, dim, casting a faint glow over the empty streets. Not a soul is in sight.
The truck lurches to a stop just outside the village. Steve steps out first, his boots hitting the cobblestones with a soft thud as he surveys Sleepy Hollow. The village is eerily quiet, its narrow streets empty except for the occasional flickering light in a window. A fog rolls thick through the trees, swallowing the town in a blanket of grey. The wind cuts through the empty spaces, carrying with it the distant sound of rustling branches.
Bucky follows close behind, his eyes narrowing as he scans the surroundings. There's a strange weight in the air, like something is about to happen. The Howling Commandos spill out of the truck behind them, grumbling as they stretch their legs after the long ride.
"This place is giving me the creeps," Gabe mutters, wiping his face. "Reminds me of those stories you hear around campfires."
"Yeah, and just like those stories, it's all a bunch of bunk," Dugan growls, tugging at his jacket. He's the first to step forward, a hard, cynical edge to his voice. "There's no Horseman. Never was a Horseman, and never will be a Horseman. It's just ghost stories and superstitions."
Falsworth, ever the more cautious one, steps off the truck and scans the area, his eyes flicking from the shadows of the forest to the darkened windows of the homes. "Well, I hope you're right, Dugan, but there's something about this place... It doesn't sit well with me."
As they begin walking down the main street of town, a quiet murmur rises from the shadows. A group of townspeople starts to gather in the narrow lane, stepping out from between the old stone houses. They're dressed in dark, old-fashioned clothing—faded coats, heavy shawls, their faces worn and tired.
The crowd stops in front of them, hesitant but determined, eyes wide with fear. One man steps forward, an older figure, his face lined with age and worry. Around his neck is a heavy, ornate talisman, a dark wooden charm with strange symbols etched into it. He clutches it with both hands, as if it holds all the power in the world.
"We need your help," the man says, his voice cracking with desperation. "The Horseman is back. He's coming for us."
Steve stands tall, his posture calm but alert, as he looks around at the gathering crowd. The tension in the air thickens, but he remains steady. "We're here to investigate," Steve says, keeping his voice firm, trying to reassure the crowd. "Tell us what's happening."
But before anyone can respond, Dugan interrupts, his voice dripping with scepticism. "This is a load of crap. Nonsense," Dugan laughs.
"Dum Dum, knock it off," Bucky tells him warningly.
The crowd shifts uncomfortably. A few of them glance at one another nervously, but the old man with the talisman doesn't falter. "Believe what you will," the old man says, his voice steady despite his trembling hands. "But I've seen him with my own eyes. The Horseman is real. And he's coming for us all."
Dugan snorts, rolling his eyes. "This is just the same old scare tactic to keep people in line," he tells Morita, waving them away dismissively.
A younger man, a nervous figure at the back of the crowd, steps forward and nervously pulls at his collar. "No, it's not a tale. It's true. The Horseman, he kills anyone who crosses his path. He... he decapitates them."
Steve's gaze sharpens. "And you think he's back?"
The old man nods solemnly, holding out the talisman toward Steve, as if trying to offer him some form of protection. "This... this keeps him away. The charm has protected me for years. I've kept it close, but I don't know how much longer it will work."
Falsworth steps up beside Dugan, giving the talisman a sceptical look. "What is that thing?" he asks the townsman, genuinely curious despite his disbelief.
The man clutches it tighter. "My talisman. It protects me from the Horseman. Without it... none of us are safe."
Dugan's lips curl in a cynical smile. "A talisman? You've got to be kidding me. By the look of your outfit, you're a magistrate, and you're spouting this nonsense?" He lets out a dismissive tsk, waving his hand. "There's no Horseman."
But the old man's eyes never waver. "You're free to doubt, soldier. But don't come crying when the Horseman takes you too."
As the words settle over the group, there's a pause. The air feels heavier, the mist swirling around them, damp and oppressive. The quiet hum of the town feels unnatural now, like the very world is holding its breath. Even Dugan falls silent for a moment, his usual bravado faltering under the weight of the man's certainty.
"We've got to move," Steve says quietly, breaking the silence. He doesn't know whether to believe this story of the Horseman, but something in the old man's voice, the look in his eyes—there's a truth to it. Something they're not seeing.
The crowd remains still as Steve leads the Commandos onward, past the gathering townspeople. But the feeling of being watched follows them, heavy and ever-present. The townsfolk, still encircling the square, whisper among themselves, and Steve can feel their unease pressing in from all sides.
Bucky walks silently beside him, his gaze moving from the frightened townspeople to the heavy fog that continues to roll in from the forest. "I don't like it, Stevie," Bucky murmurs. "None of it feels right."
"Yeah," Steve mutters under his breath, "But we're here to find answers. We'll figure this out."
As they make their way through the winding streets, Steve can't help but feel like the eyes of the entire town are on them, following their every step. The talisman still burns in his mind, a strange symbol of hope—or perhaps a last-ditch effort at survival. Either way, they're getting closer to the truth, even if it's something they aren't ready to face.
They finally come to a stop in the centre of town in front of an old tavern, its wooden sign creaking in the wind. The door to the tavern swings open, and an old man steps out, leaning heavily on a cane. His face is lined with age, his eyes dark and hooded, but there's something about the way he carries himself—something that screams he's seen more than his fair share of trouble.
He stands there for a moment, watching them, as if waiting for the right moment to speak. Finally, he hobbles forward, his cane tapping against the cobblestone with each step.
"You must be the Americans," he says in a thick accent, his voice gruff. "Come, come. I've been waiting for you."
Steve looks at Bucky, who raises an eyebrow. This man doesn't look like someone they're supposed to meet, but there's no turning back now.
The Commandos follow the tavern owner into the dimly lit establishment, the heavy oak door creaking as it shuts behind them. The scent of stale wood and aging ale fills the air, and the warmth inside contrasts with the chill outside. The walls are adorned with old wooden beams and faded tapestries, the low murmur of conversation from the handful of locals filling the space. The flickering fire in the hearth casts long shadows on the walls, making everything feel just a bit more uncertain.
The tavern owner, a stout man with a thick beard and dark eyes, motions toward a small, cluttered corner near the fire. He gestures for the group to sit, and after a moment's hesitation, Steve, Bucky, and the Howling Commandos take their places around the heavy wooden table. The fire crackles and pops, casting eerie reflections on the walls.
"You're not the first strangers to come through here," the tavern owner begins, his voice low but steady. "But you're the first ones brave enough to ask about the Horseman." He pauses for a moment, his eyes flickering toward the door as though expecting someone—or something—to enter at any moment. "And you're the first ones to want the truth."
"We're here on a mission, to investigate fallen soldiers," Steve explains.
"There's something unnatural about this place. And the people who live here... they aren't like you and me," the tavern owner says, voice low.
Steve leans forward slightly, his brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
The old man leans in closer, lowering his voice. "The Sleepy Hollow curse," he whispers. "It was always just a story, but… With everything that's been happening, the townspeople have studied the old texts. We've sifted through the stories. It's real. And it's only a matter of time before it claims more souls."
Bucky shifts uneasily in his chair, but Steve keeps his focus on the man. "What kind of curse?" he asks, his voice steady despite the hairs on the back of his neck standing at attention.
The old man stares into the fire, his face twisted in an expression of fear. "The curse of the Headless Horseman. The stories have been here for centuries. And he's coming back."
The room grows colder, the fire sputtering as if it too feels the weight of the man's words.
Steve's mind races, trying to make sense of it all. A curse? A ghost story? This isn't the kind of mission he's used to. But the man's terrified look tells him that something is wrong—dead wrong. And whatever it is, he knows they're about to get caught right in the middle of it.
The tavern owner pulls out an old, leather-bound book from behind the counter, its pages yellowed with age. "The people of this village, we've carried the story for hundreds of years. We've written it down, passed it on in whispers, and it's lived through generations."
He flips open the book, handwritten it's so old, and stops on the page, titled 'The Headless Horseman'.
He leans in closer, as if sharing a secret with them, the firelight catching the glint of his eyes. "You see, the Horseman isn't just some legend. The story tells of a man, who was once a soldier, like you. He was cursed, damned for all eternity, driven by his love for carnage. He was born of death, and death is what he gives."
Steve leans forward, his brow furrowing. He's heard his fair share of myths, but something about the way this man speaks… there's a depth to it that makes his skin crawl.
The tavern owner flips through the pages of the book, each one brittle with age, the ink faded in places. He stops on a page with a detailed illustration of a man in dark armour, riding a massive black steed. "In the story," he continues, his voice lower now, almost reverent, "the Horseman was a killer. He rode a giant black steed named Daredevil. Not a regular horse, mind you. Daredevil was a beast, bigger than any other, with eyes like burning coals and hooves that thundered like a storm."
"Wait a minute," Dugan interrupts, raising an eyebrow. "A horse named Daredevil? You expect us to believe this is some sort of—what? A demon horse?"
The tavern owner meets Dugan's gaze, unfazed. "Believe what you want, soldier. This town has lived with the story for centuries, with a fear of this. The Horseman, he comes every time the moon is right. He comes from the forest, where the trees are twisted, and the ground is soaked with the blood of the fallen. He rides through the village, taking what he wants—those he deems guilty or undeserving of life."
Bucky shifts in his seat, his eyes scanning the room. "So, the heads… he takes them?"
The tavern owner nods solemnly. "Yes. He takes them. Takes them back to hell. And when the bodies are found, there's no trace of where the heads have gone. Not even the slightest clue. They're never found."
Steve looks to Bucky, and he sees the same flicker of disbelief in his friend's eyes. But there's something about the man's story, the way he speaks about it like he's lived it, that unsettles them both.
The tavern owner's voice drops even lower, his words laden with an eerie reverence. "He was a soldier, yes, but a soldier with a terrible fate. Betrayed by those he served with, left to die in this very valley. They say he made a pact with the dark forces of the forest, seeking vengeance on the ones who wronged him. But in the end, it was his own soul that was lost."
Steve leans forward, intrigued but cautious. The fire crackles in the background, casting long, flickering shadows across the faces of those gathered around the table.
Bucky raises an eyebrow, his fingers tapping absently on the worn wood. "And the curse? What's that got to do with him?"
The tavern owner flicks through the pages, finding a passage written in faded ink. "The curse… it binds him to the land, to this village. The Horseman rides not for revenge, but for his lost head. The forest, the town, they are all part of it now—his prison. The townspeople… we are his unwilling witnesses. Every so often, the Horseman returns, seeking new souls to claim, leaving nothing but a trail of blood and terror in his wake. Each time, it gets worse, more powerful. And this time… I fear it will be the last."
The words linger in the air, thick and oppressive. Steve's mind races, processing what the man has said. A cursed soldier, a headless spectre, terrorizing the town for generations. It's the kind of story he's heard whispered in the dark of campfires, but never in a place like this—so real, so tangible.
"What does this have to do with us?" Steve asks, his voice steady but filled with an unspoken question. There has to be more.
The tavern owner looks at him, his eyes tired, as if the weight of centuries rests on his shoulders. "I don't know if you can stop him. But I know you're not like the others. You came for the truth. Maybe that's enough."
Steve glances at Bucky, who, despite his usual scepticism, looks deep in thought. The Howling Commandos shift uncomfortably in their chairs, the oppressive air of the tavern making the heavy silence all the more palpable.
"What do we need to do?" Bucky asks, his voice tense with the seriousness of the situation.
The tavern owner hesitates, the old book still resting open before him. He seems to choose his next words carefully. "There are ways to protect yourself from the Horseman. Talismans, rituals. But the most important thing is to find the source of the curse. The valley itself. It's where the Horseman was betrayed, where his death—and his pact—began. You must uncover the truth hidden in the valley before it's too late."
"But why now?" Steve asks, the words coming out sharper than he intends. "Why is he back? What's changed?"
The tavern owner leans back, his eyes narrowing as he looks into the fire, as if searching for the right words. "The Horseman is said to only return when the balance is tipped. When there's a great injustice. And in this village, there's been much. We have been overrun by Nazis for years, since the war began, but there is something else. We don't know what, but there is something else happening, on the outskirts, creating a shift. Creating injustice. A great miscarriage of justice. We hear rumblings of it, beyond the mountains, in the forest. And our people… they've forgotten. Forgotten the old ways. They've forgotten the rules. Whatever has happened has stirred up something it shouldn't have. And now, the Horseman is reclaiming what's his."
"Hydra?" Morita asks quietly. "Are they operating near here?"
"Possibly," Steve says. "We don't have intel, but it's possible."
Falsworth, who's been quiet up until now, speaks up. "You're saying the Horseman is some sort of punishment? A supernatural executioner?"
The tavern owner's eyes flash with something dark. "Exactly. He doesn't care who you are. It doesn't matter if you're innocent or guilty. If he comes for you, you won't escape. He doesn't take kindly to trespassers, to those who've forgotten what they owe to the past."
Bucky leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. "And this… this has been going on for hundreds of years?"
The tavern owner nods, his fingers tracing the edge of the book like he's connecting to something ancient, something outside of their understanding. "Not the Horseman. This is the first I have heard of sightings of him in my lifetime. But the story's always been with us. Written in these old texts, passed down through generations. We believed it was just a tale… but now? Now it's all too real."
A heavy silence hangs in the air. The fire crackles, and the shadows around them seem to stretch and twist with the faintest hint of something unseen. The Commandos exchange uncertain glances. Some are still sceptical, but the weight of the tavern owner's words, the certainty in his voice—it has planted a seed of doubt in their minds.
Dugan, ever the cynic, shifts in his seat, clearing his throat. "So, what do we do now? Hunt down a ghost?"
The tavern owner looks at him, his gaze piercing. "The Horseman isn't a ghost. He's a force. A curse. And you'll need more than guns to stop him. You'll need something old. Something stronger."
Bucky leans forward, his interest piqued. "What do you mean? What can stop him?"
The tavern owner doesn't answer immediately, his gaze drifting to the darkened windows. "I don't know. But I think you'll find out soon enough."
"So, where do we start?" Steve asks the man, his voice firm.
The old man glances over his shoulder as though expecting someone to appear behind him. "There's a place in the woods," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "A place where the veil between this world and the next is said to be thin. That's where you'll find him."
Bucky stands up, his expression unreadable. "Then we head to the forest."
Steve nods, a quiet resolve settling in his chest. "We'll head to the valley. We need answers, and we'll get them."
The tavern owner's face pales at the mention of the valley, as though the very name stirs up long-forgotten fears. "Be careful," he warns. "The valley has a mind of its own. It changes, moves with you. It's a place where time doesn't behave the way it should. And whatever you do… don't lose yourself there."
Steve doesn't respond immediately, the weight of the warning settling heavily on his shoulders. He looks around at the Commandos, each of them reflecting the same mix of curiosity and dread. They've fought battles before, but this… this feels different.
The tavern owner closes the book with a slow, deliberate motion. "You should leave before dawn. The Horseman's return… it's close."
With that, he stands, signaling that the conversation is over. The Howling Commandos slowly rise, still processing the old man's words. They file out of the tavern into the heavy mist that now blankets Sleepy Hollow, the oppressive quiet of the village pressing in on them.
As they walk back toward the truck, Steve can't shake the sense that they've stepped into something far larger than themselves—a story of death, betrayal, and a curse that's been festering for centuries. Whatever happens next, it will be something none of them will be prepared for.
"We're in for one hell of a ride, aren't we?" Bucky mutters under his breath, his eyes scanning the fog around them.
Steve doesn't answer, his mind focused on the path ahead. There's no turning back now. They've come to uncover the truth—and whatever it is, they'll face it head-on, together.
That night, after setting up camp near the village, the air feels thicker. It's a strange sort of silence that settles around the soldiers, the usual sounds of the forest—distant birds, the rustle of wind—seem to have faded into nothingness. The valley is unnervingly still, the kind of stillness that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, as though something unseen is watching, waiting.
The Commandoes and the additional company gather around multiple campfires, their shadows dancing against the darkened sky, a flicker of warmth in the cold mountain air. They talk in low voices, joking and trying to shake off the sense of unease that has lingered since they first set foot in this strange little village.
Bucky, as usual, keeps his distance, his gaze wandering to the shadows that stretch out beyond their campfire. His mind races, trying to make sense of it all—strange villagers, ancient superstitions, the looming darkness of the forest. He doesn't believe in curses. Doesn't believe in ghosts or headless horsemen. He's seen too much to fall for that sort of thing. But something about this place feels… wrong.
Steve is sitting by the fire, legs spread out before him, quietly cleaning his shield. His eyes are scanning the surrounding woods, the same unease creeping up on him, even though he's trying to keep his focus. The others seem to be laughing off the tension, but he knows that when the air feels like this, you don't ignore it.
Then, just as he's about to say something to Bucky, the sound pierces through the night.
Hoofbeats.
Slow at first, distant, like thunder rolling over the horizon. They echo off the cliffs, reverberating through the valley. It's a sound that shouldn't be there. A sound that doesn't belong. And as the hoofbeats grow louder, closer, a chill crawls up Steve's spine.
Bucky straightens up immediately, his senses sharpening. His hand instinctively goes to his sidearm. He's not sure what it is, but he knows that sound from the movies he and Steve used to go to as boys, and from the radio shows they listened to at night when they were bored.
The hoofbeats of a horse.
The sound grows faster now, rushing toward them like the galloping of a storm. It's almost as if the earth itself is shaking with the force of the rider's approach.
And then—
A bloodcurdling scream.
The scream rips through the night, cutting it like a knife. It's high-pitched, raw, full of terror, and it echoes through the trees, sending a ripple of shock through every soldier in the camp. Even the ones who were trying to hide their fear are frozen now, their faces pale in the firelight.
Steve's heart starts to race, and he stands up, his muscles tensed, his eyes scanning the horizon. "What the hell was that?" he mutters under his breath.
Bucky doesn't answer, his eyes scanning the dark woods beyond the camp. There's nothing but the tall trees, swaying gently in the night breeze. But that scream… it's still echoing in his head.
Dugan, his ever-present scepticism hanging thick in the air, scowls. "Probably some poor bastard from the village. Drunk out of his mind, stumbling around in the woods."
But there's a certain edge in Dugan's voice that doesn't sound so sure. The soldiers exchange uneasy glances. Even Dugan can't hide the uncertainty in his tone now.
The hoofbeats are still there, too—faint, almost imperceptible, but unmistakable. Like the rider is waiting. Watching. Just beyond the trees.
"Stay alert," Steve orders, his voice low and steady, though even he feels the tension in his gut tightening. "Everyone, eyes out. Dugan, take a couple of men and check the perimeter. Bucky, stay close."
Bucky gives a tight nod, his hand never leaving the grip of his sidearm. He doesn't want to believe in any of the nonsense the villagers have been talking about. But that scream, the way the night feels, the sound of the hooves—it all feels too real.
And something about this place, about the dark woods that surround them, makes him think that maybe… just maybe… there's more to these old tales than he wants to admit.
As Dugan moves off with a few of the others, Steve and Bucky stay near the camp, watching the edge of the woods. Their senses are heightened now, every snap of a twig, every rustling leaf making their hearts race. It's quiet again, too quiet. And then—
The hoofbeats are back, louder this time, thundering across the valley, faster, nearer. They come from the direction of the village, where the trees are thickest, the shadows deepest.
Before either of them can react, the sound halts, dead in its tracks.
And for a long moment, everything is still.
Then, the air seems to shift. It thickens, grows heavy, and the forest is swallowed in an unnatural silence. No crickets chirp. No wind rustles the leaves.
And in that silence, there is a sense of inevitability. Like the world is holding its breath.
Something is coming. Something that has no place in this world.
And as quickly as the feeling comes, it goes.
The crickets return. The wind whistles through the trees. The horse's footsteps slowly move away until they can't be heard anymore.
Steve and Bucky share a look. Bucky visibly gulps.
"Well, shit just got interesting," he says, gripping his rifle tight against his chest.
