I dream of him, night after night. His form shrouded in shadow, his uniform tattered and soaked with blood. He sits outside my window astride a great black steed, waiting. I wake with the weight of his presence sitting heavy in my stomach, next to my poor, unborn child.
Perhaps I have gone mad. Perhaps my grief has unravelled me.
But I think not.
I keep my window firmly closed.
November 7, 1819
I do not know why I continue to write. Perhaps because this little book that I have poured my secrets into is the only thing that feels real anymore.
Sleepy Hollow is dying.
The mist has thickened, pressing against windows and doors as if it demands to be let inside. The church bells no longer toll. I have not left Van Tassel Manor in days. Father will not let me,will not let any of us. Even if he did, I would not want to leave. The atmosphere in here is cold, but outside it is colder still.
So many are dead, too many to count. I have lost track. Every morning, more headless bodies litter the streets. Some families have tried to flee, abandoning their homes and livelihoods, but how far they have gotten, I cannot say. I know there is no escaping this. Sleepy Hollow is cursed.
I do not leave my room. I do not dare. I sit at my window and watch as the crows gather on the dead and twisted trees outside. Their eyes are filled with an unnatural shine. They know what is happening.
Still, I hear the hoofbeats in the night, heavy and slow, circling the house. I know it is him. My love, my soldier. He has returned for vengeance, but I cannot bear to see him like this.
As soon as the sun starts to dip beneath the trees, I pull my curtains tightly shut. I do not open them until I am sure the weak sun is high in the sky again.
Father does not know what to do. He paces the halls, his face ashen, his hands trembling. He knows that he has doomed us all.
November 10, 1819
For days, Father has remained locked away in his study, barely emerging to take food, speaking to no one in the household. Even Mother has given up knocking on his door, for fear of being met by anger or silence. The servants, who are permitted to take him wine in the evening, whisper with their heads together in the corridor when they think we cannot see them.
I knew he was planning something.
Tonight, my suspicions were confirmed.
At dusk, he finally emerged, face pale and hair unkempt, his mouth set in grim determination. He scurried through thehouse without word to me or Mother. I confess I was most interested to discover what he had been indulging in, and I listened in the shadows as he sent orders to summon the other town elders.
They arrived quickly, in pairs, as if no man wanted to walk the streets alone.
I cannot say that I blame them.
They once again secreted themselves inside my father’s study, and I feared I would never discover what he had been working on. But then, most peculiarly, as the clock chimed the eleventh hour, the wise woman from the next town over arrived on our doorstep. I watched her approach from my window, her thin frame hunched and wrapped in shawls. Her gnarled hand enclosed around a wooden staff, taking most of her weight. My father met her at the door without a word, the heavy oak slamming shut and sealing them both inside.
The entire situation leaves me most conflicted. My beloved town is suffering beyond measure, and I long for peace and normalcy. I want to step outside of these walls and feel the sun warm my face. But I cannot shake the feeling that my father and his men will hurt my soldier. As I put pen to paper, I realise how ridiculous I sound. He is the one causing this darkness and torment. I still fear opening my curtains at night, lest I see something that cannot be unseen. But I remember him as he was, and our unborn child still nestles within me. I couldn’t bear it if they set about to harm him further. Even in death, they will not let him rest.
November 11, 1819
Diary, what have I seen?
Midnight came, and as I heard them preparing to leave the house, I too readied myself. Under cover of darkness, I followed them.
Their torches flickered in the night, illuminating the way, casting dancing shadows. I kept my distance at first, but they did not hesitate as they entered the trees, the darkness swallowing them whole. I sped up for fear of losing them, moving as silently as I could, following their steps on the leaf-strewn path. And there they stopped, in the heart of the woods, where a clearing had been prepared.
They formed a circle, each of the elders adorning themselves with a robe as black as night. Soon they were stood, hoods drawn up and heads bowed. The wise woman was at the centre, staff raised and murmuring, although I was too far away to hear what she said.
And then I saw it. Her.
At the wise woman’s feet, there was a young girl, her hair loose and tangled, naked.
She was twisting this way and that. I’m sure she would have screamed, but I could see a strip of fabric across her mouth.
