But now, I’m filled with an overwhelming urge to know him better. I want to barge inside, pull open all the drawers, pore over all the papers inside.
My hand hovers over the brass doorknob. For a moment I hesitate. It feels wrong, like his presence is still here, ready to scold me for breaking this boundary.
I think of all the secrets and lies.
I push the door open and step inside.
The heavy drapes are tied back, framing the window. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases line the walls, stuffed full, spines gleaming in the moonlight. There’s another great fireplace on the far wall. It hasn’t been cleaned recently and ash from the last fire my father warmed himself with spills onto the hearth. A large mahogany desk takes up most of the floor space. The tabletop is neat and orderly, waiting to be used again. But it never will be.
I take a deep breath and move inside the room, circling the desk. My fingers trail over the ornate detail of the wood.
And then I see the photographs.
There’s a large one on the desk, more scattered along the shelves.
Pictures of me.
A lump forms in my throat as I pick up the large frame. It’s a black and white photo of me as a toddler, sitting in my mother’s lap. We’re both smiling widely at the camera.
He kept this sitting on his desk every day?
On the mantelpiece there are more, large and small, some with frames, some without. I recognise my grandparents in one. All the people seem familiar, look a little bit alike. It feels like a shrine to the Van Tassel family.
I sink into the large office chair and put my head in my hands. Generations of Van Tassels have kept Sleepy Hollow safe. Now it’s up to me.
I spin myself around to face the desk and sit up straight, trying to channel Philip Van Tassel. He was always so assured, so knowledgeable.
Tears prick the backs of my eyes, and I wipe the back of my hand under my nose.
I freeze when I spot the small leather journal sitting in the middle of my father’s desk. The diary of the original KatrinaVan Tassel. I’d been so engrossed in her tale, I’d been reading it for days. Until it had simply vanished from my room. What’s it doing in here?
I huff a laugh through my nose. Philp Van Tassel. Of course he had taken it, I should have known.
I pick the diary up, turning it over in my hands. I fan through the pages. Why did he take it from me? What is in here that he didn’t want me to see?
Despite the chaos around me, curiosity gets the better of me. I have to know what else is in here. In the last entry I had managed to read, Katrina’s soldier had been taken from her, and her father was demanding she go through with her marriage to a total stranger. I need to know how her story ends. I flip to the entry dated 4 November 1819 and pick up where I left off.
28
November 4, 1819
Ihad sworn to myself I would never open this wretched book again. What use is writing when my love is gone, when my heart is but a hollow ruin? But something has happened. Something I cannot explain. I must put it to paper, if only to convince myself I have not lost my mind.
The town has changed.
It began with the mist. The morning after that fateful day, when my soldier was taken from me, the mist rolled in, coating the town, thick as wool, and it has not lifted since. It clings to the cobblestones, winding through the streets like ghostly fingers. The sun is but a faint glow behind it. It emits no warmth, and I fear I will never feel its heat again.
The air smells of damp earth and decay, and an eerie silence has settled over Sleepy Hollow. No children’s laughter, the streets no longer filled with bustling merchants. Just the occasional caw of a crow, its black eyes watching from atop thetrees. The birds are everywhere now, perched along rooftops, lining fences, their feathers slick and dark as ink. Watching. Waiting.
And then, the deaths began.
The first body was found three nights ago, a stable hand from this very estate. He had been missing for a full day when they discovered him at the edge of the forest, beheaded.
Since then, there have been more. They’ve all been found the same way, their bodies crumpled, their heads gone.
Whispers spread through the town like wildfire, but what they say makes no sense. They say it is my soldier. Even though I do not understand it, I know in my heart they are right.
My soldier has returned. Not as the man I loved, but as something else, something vengeful. Something that stalks the town at night, hurting.
