There has to be something.
I’m vaguely aware of the others talking quietly, but I’m lost in thought, chewing my lip.
Think. There must be something.
But there isn’t. Not here.
My head has started to pound and it feels like the walls of the archive room are closing in around me. I bring the tips of my fingers to my temples to massage them. I need coffee.
Wait. Coffee. The bookshop.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned since coming to this town, it’s that Sleepy Hollow is steeped in the supernatural. I didn’t want to accept it at first, but here we are. Now that I think about it, even that police sergeant who’d laughed me out of the station must have been covering for the chief. And where was I the first time I’d come across any mention of it?
The bookshop.
I think back to my second day in town, when Brom had shown me around, already knowing that I would like the place. It had smelled of old paper and incense, and crystals had lined the walls. The woman behind the counter had been adorned in charms, and she had been scribbling in that pentacle-covered notebook.
“Meet me back at the house,” I say abruptly, standing up to leave.
“Where are you going?” Ichabod asks, reaching for me.
“To find another option.”
Before any of them can respond, I turn and head towards the exit.
Across town, the familiar blue bookshop comes into view, nestled between two other brick buildings, its weathered old sign creaking in the breeze. The window display has changed and now there’s an array of dreamcatchers, big leather tomes and a single black candle that flickers despite not being lit.
I push the door open, and a soft bell chimes above me.
Looking around, I see now that the shelves are packed with books on the occult, astrology and folklore. I guess I wasn’t that observant on my first visit. The same woman with the long, pale blonde hair is sitting at the counter, sorting through a deck of tarot cards. Poppy.
She looks up as I approach, smiling knowingly.
“Back so soon?” she asks.
I’m unsure where to begin, but there’s no time for hesitation as I’m on a deadline. Or rather, my father is.
“I need some help and… I’m looking for old stories, legends, information about… the Headless Horseman.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Yes, I heard you mention him the last time you were here. But you’re not a believer.”
“Well, I believe now,” I mutter darkly.
Time to cut to the chase.
“I need to stop the Horseman.”
The sparkle dies in her eyes and her back gets a little straighter.
“How interesting. I’ve been waiting for someone to come, ever since we sensed something had upset the balance. Then the deaths. When no-one did, well, we were hoping it was a blip, and he had been caged once again. I suppose none of us truly wanted to face the idea that he had crossed back to this world,” Poppy says, one hand on her chin, her eyes glazed and lost in thought. “I wouldn’t have guessed you would be the one to come asking, though.”
A prickle of hope flares in my chest at Poppy’s words, the same ones my father had used last night.
“It sounds like you know a lot about it,” I say.
“I know a great many things you won’t find in these books.” She raises her hands to indicate the shop and the volumes lining the walls.
I look around at the bags of herbs hung around the door and the windows, that spooky black candle, the tarot cards resting on the countertop. The way Poppy is talking, ofsensingthings,knowingthings, waiting for someone. I want to laugh at what I’m about to ask, but this is Sleepy Hollow, and I guess I really am a believer now.
