Hollow Blood (Sleepy Hollow Horrors, Book 1): The Hunt For the Foul Murderer of Ichabod Crane: Sleepy Hollow Horrors, #1

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Now, prepare to be scared with my take own the next chapter of the classic legend of Sleepy Hollow!

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Introduction

My part in this horrific affair began five years ago. My parents had learned of the death, indirectly through third parties, two years after the original event in, of all things, a ghost story, and inquired further. When I became aware of the tragedy, I took the inquiries upon myself until I came to know a man named Diedrich Knickerbocker. It was his last post, in our nearly one year correspondence, that not only gave the fullest account of the alleged circumstances of the original event, but also the surrounding background and details. It was that letter that precipitated my quest, which, unsurprisingly to all who know me, evolved into my current situation.

In the late autumn of 1790, Ichabod Crane, a well-likeable schoolmaster in the New England town of Sleepy Hollow, disappeared in body from the face of God's Earth. Folks say in whispers what they refused to say aloud—he was 'taken' by the chief spirit that haunted the Hollow—the Headless Horseman.

Aye, this Headless Horseman. Some say, this horseman was bewitched by a German warlock in the earliest days of colonial settlement. Some say, an ancient Indian chieftain and sorcerer held dark pow-wows on the very land that is the Hollow. The Horseman, who, as legend has it, had his head carried away by a cannonball in the War, haunted the Hollow's valley in his nightly quest for his head. This Horseman is a giant of a man—albeit headless—in black clothes and a massive cloak, sitting on a fearsome black horse. This Horseman chases his unfortunate mortal victim, rising in his stirrups to throw its dreadful pumpkin, then passes by like a whirlwind, and disappears into the night.

Aye, they would declare, the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow.

I, however, believe in no such feeble supernatural tales, though the simple people of Sleepy Hollow regard them as unimpeachable certainties. However, the murder of a man, in all my considerable experience despite my youth in age, remains the province of other men of flesh and blood, and not ghosts and boogiemen. The Foul Murderer of Ichabod Crane is whom I seek. And when I find this man, without any hesitation to burden myself with any civilized reflections or academic considerations in 'seeking justice and not revenge,' all irrelevant to my purpose and irrelevant to my hunt, I shall kill this devil.

Part I

BROM BONES

Poor, Unfortunate Ichabod

Death by another name.

His very eyes bulged from their sockets. His teeth jutted forward from his wide-open mouth, unable to scream. His ponytail flew and flapped behind his head, and his hands clutched his horse, Gunpowder, with inhuman strength borne out of the depths of panic.

Ichabod rode the horse out of Sleepy Hollow in the grips of incredible terror. The ground was ripped up with the terrible force of his horror-stricken horse as both man and beast disappeared into the night.

In close pursuit, the black goblin horse appeared with its huge, misshapen, towering rider—a glowing pumpkin already in the rider's hand. The rider had neither neck nor head on his shoulders. They raced after their prey like an unstoppable force.

It was a fall day in 1790, and it was Ichabod Crane's last night—last day—alive.

The Hunter

To blame the foul murder of a good man on an imaginary apparition may be the way of the superstitious folk of these sleepy country-sides, but my vengeance upon his true murderer shall not be denied.

This was the place of ghosts, banshees, creeping shadows...and the Legend.

Sleepy Hollow seemed like most of the towns nestled away in spacious coves that dotted the eastern shore of the Hudson River. This region was settled by the descendants of Dutch voyagers who came in search of the New World. It was, as its name suggested, a peaceful, valley glen, however, it was different from all the others in that it was home to the most enduring and frightening of the region's supernatural tales. The land itself had a quality of unnatural influence in the air that made the imaginations of the average person, even the most skeptical one, see and hear things that were not truly there.

A young man continued his slow ride into town, his mind wandering. I may be here when you get back, she had said to him those many, many months back when he set his mind to his hunt. Maybe.

The woman who was supposed to be his wife glanced at him once more before she climbed into her awaiting carriage and left him behind, standing alone on a New Haven, Connecticut street. She was right to be vexed with him. He was a man obsessed, and no other life for him would be possible until he brought the affair to its final end.

He thought of her often at the beginning, but as he made his way up the Hudson Valley, ever closer to Sleepy Hollow, all his mind concerned itself with was the confrontation with that foul murderer. Now after his long journey, his destination was a mere minute away on horseback.

This New England autumn day was without the previous day's cold winds. A nice breeze blew through the trees that covered the glen with their beautiful yellow and brown leaves. Upon a pointed grassy knoll, one of many in these parts, a youngish man in a worn, out-of-fashion, three-cornered hat sat on a large and graceful horse. The animal's coat was a shiny shade of black, save for a white streak down its forehead. Both were so still that they could have been mistaken for statues. His face had an expression of hardened determination as he scanned the land slowly, moving his head only slightly. He imagined being here, on this very spot, when lying awake on restless nights, impatient, contemplating, and dreaming about finally arriving. Now, at long last, Sleepy Hollow was before him.

Despite its haunted reputation far and wide, he believed none of it, whether this region or any other, with all manner of indigenous frightening and fantastical legends to match. The stories about these parts were endless. He had a personal disdain for any man who let his life be governed by fanciful superstitions, even the Indian whose customs were intertwined with such beliefs. Men were supposed to grow out of such folly, not spread their tall tales by spoken and written word to every corner of the land. Most times it could be ignored by the rational man, but occasionally these imaginings could seize grown townspeople with such frenzy that only terrible outcomes could result, as was shown centuries ago with the event of the Salem Witch Trials in old colonial Massachusetts—innocents killed by the law on the testimony, the lies, of a group of little girls. However, even in modern 1800, centuries later, stories of ghosts and evil things roaming about in the night persisted.

Even he had to admit to himself that, as he and his horse, Caleb Williams, neared this place, there was something unnatural about it. It was a feeling that he couldn't shake from his mind or body. It was a feeling that he couldn't quite put into words, but it was as tangible and consequential as any solid object of substance he had ever come across. It was an ominous calmness, waiting for something bad to manifest. He took comfort in knowing—or convinced himself—that he was that badness coming to happen.

But it was not all imagination. There were actual manifestations that he had encountered during the journey. He had come across more than one wild animal—a black bird, something swimming in the stream, maybe some species of water snake—all gazing upon him with devilish eyes, all acting more like the scheming imps of fables than the normal fauna of nature. It was common on a long journey to imagine the trees, dark in the night, to be inanimate sentinels, spying on your every move. The only time that imagination became much more was when a hellish wolf took to howling at the moon in a ferocious manner, not more than ten feet from where they had situated themselves to make camp. After the commotion, he had his gun at the ready, but the beast seemed to disappear.

Even today, there was another occurrence. Down a desolate path, they came across a puddle of blood. Some kind of animal, a rabbit perhaps, had been killed and whisked away, but the brightness of the red and amount of blood was unnatural. His horse didn't need any prompting. He instinctively moved off the road and into the brush so as not to have to step near the blood puddle. Julian put it out of his mind.

Many long months and many lonely miles of travel finally brought him here, a journey spurred by the receipt of a plain, crinkled piece of paper. His eyes locked on his final destination now before him—the reclusive glen of Sleepy Hollow.

It be the quietest, sleepiest, place in the whole world. He remembered the words of some townsman he had come across days ago, back in the nearby town of Sing Sing. But it wasn't quiet, at least not at this moment. Birdsong filled the air—almost suddenly it seemed to him. The October air was nippy but not uncomfortable. Along the shores of the Atlantic, such towns were not exclusive to the Hudson. Every state had its own imitations secluded away. He probably ran through most of them when he was attached to General Washington, chasing after or running from Redcoats in the War. He may not have been a man-soldier then, but he was a soldier, nevertheless—a drummer boy for the American Continental Army. The War freed him from the doldrums of the schoolhouse and the awful Mrs. 'Beetle-face.' Even being a child, he conducted himself like a real soldier, even if he was too small to carry a musket, let alone shoot one.

But he could shoot one now, and kill a man, too.

We go, Caleb Williams, he said quietly as he gave his horse's reins a firm tug, accompanied by a firm kick with the heel of his right foot. The animal moved forward.

He paused at the door of the quaint home. There was no mirror for him to gaze at himself, but he ran his hand down the front of his chest, checked his buttons, looked down at his shoes, touched his dark hat on his head, and touched the sides of his dark brown hair. His supposed-to-be-wife was right. Menfolk fuss over themselves every bit as much as womenfolk. They just hide themselves, even from other men, when they do. The day before in Tarry Town, he did manage to stop for a good shave to properly trim his mustache and beard, so he was confident in his professional appearance. He said it to himself clearly in his mind. All the planning, journeying, contemplating every step, move and countermove in his mind, it had all come to this.

It all begins with this friendly knock on this door.

Call me Julian, ma'am. He smiled a big smile as he tipped his three-cornered hat and bowed his head to the woman in a long fluid motion before firmly placing it back on his slicked-backed black hair. I am here to chase away the doldrums and even those minor dark moods and darker spirits, with my genial disposition and learned repartee.

The buxom woman laughed at the young man with his constantly moving frame. He was tall and lean, but with strong shoulders, more muscle than bone, and the slightly callused hands of a man of toil rather than leisure, despite his fancy dress.

You're a funny soul, she said. What might your surname be? The middle-aged woman was short and round, wearing a dark blue work dress, and her head and neck wrapped with a shawl. She leaned against the open door frame with her arms folded.

My dear ma'am, are we not long, lost kindred confidants who have left such formalities behind eons ago?

She laughed again. "Eons? I'm not all that up in years, and you are barely past being a youngin' on your father's lap. What are you trying to sell me, stranger? Because you are not from these parts. Be cautious on how you answer, because right now you have my interest. In a moment, you shall have my door slammed shut in your face."

Julian laughed. I'm fond of a woman who declares her state of mind plainly.

I'm sure you are fond of other things when it comes to a woman, but out with your intentions, Julian with no last name.

Julian straightened himself and seemed to grow an inch or two. He reached into his jacket for a small, brown leather notepad with a tiny pencil between its pages.

Ma'am, I am in search of one Ichabod Crane.

The woman's smile disappeared from her face. I don't know who that is, stranger. She began closing the door, but Julian leaned forward with an outstretched hand.

Please ma'am. There is no call for little falsehoods. I may have to speak with many of the good townspeople of Sleepy Hollow, but all I need is for one fine soul to assist me in my quest. My employers have directed me to locate and converse with one Ichabod Crane, and I am authorized to handsomely compensate any kind person who assists me in this most important task.

Compensate? she asked, her disposition instantly reverted back to cordial.

Handsomely. Julian smiled. And we don't even have to tell your husband.

The woman's smile also returned.

The home of Mrs. Mulder was as cozy and quaint as the one of Mrs. Van Boor, only this one still clamored with small children, the oldest of which was no more than ten.

Tell me about Mr. Ichabod Crane? Julian asked as he sat at the family table, poised with his pencil and small notepad.

"Ichabod...there is so much to recall, but all of it good. I believe he was Connecticut-born. Not sure what he did there exactly, but here in the Hollow, he was our chief schoolmaster. Yes, 'spare the rod and spoil the child,' he always said. He would do his duty by their parents. He kept a firm hand on the urchins, but his punishments were never vindictive or arbitrary. He always helped the little children and never gave the big children more than they could handle. He had a soft heart. He would even play with the larger boys in the fields and chaperon the little boys to their homes. 'Who knows what shades and spirits could be lurking?' he would say.

"Everyone here sure enjoyed seeing him, especially the womenfolk. From house-to-house he'd go, bringing all the