As we reach the back of the cemetery, the graves grow closer together, more haphazardly spaced, and our footsteps are muffled by dead and decaying leaves as we weave through the rows. There’s an eerie stillness, broken only by the occasional cry of one of the crows.
“This is it,” Brom says, stopping at a much smaller metal gate set into a low stone wall. “If he was buried at all, this is where he’d be.”
“It’s as good a place to start as any, then,” I reply. Before I have the chance to hesitate, I move past Brom, opening the little gate and entering the oldest part of the graveyard.
He wasn’t exaggerating about the simplicity of the graves. Some have wooden crosses, crudely marked, and some don’t bear any information at all. Others may have once had grave markers, but if they did, they’re long gone now.
I don’t feel optimistic about this. It doesn’t feel right, and I don’t think we’ll find what we’re looking for. But now that we’re here, we may as well look around and make sure.
We fan out, each taking a different row, squatting down to squint at any engraving that might still be left, wiping years ofgrime from the names. I reach the end of my row, but the name on this grave is too eroded to read.
“Anything?” I call out.
“Not yet,” both men shout back.
I start on another row, and between the three of us, it’s not long before we’ve checked every grave that’s still legible. We regroup in the centre, each shaking our heads.
Brom brushes dirt from his hands and the knees of his jeans. “I’ve been thinking, Kat. You said your dad was part of some secret cult. What if they kept the Horseman’s bones, after they got rid of him the first time?”
“Kept them?” I get a sudden image of my father, dressed in his dark robes, holding up a skull and smiling proudly. I shake the thought away.
“Yeah, think about it,” Brom continues. “Apparently, they’ve kept him under control all this time, right? Making sacrifices to keep him at bay. They must have needed something of his to complete their ritual. They’d need access to his remains.”
I hadn’t thought about it like that before, but it makes sense. They had to be making these sacrificestosomething. But where would they have kept them? Dad had told me it was a yearly ritual.
“Well, I don’t think they’re in Dad’s study back at the manor,” I say slowly, thinking it through out loud. “I was in there just last night.”
Ichabod lifts his head. “I think you might be on to something though. I’ve always thought that it was an odd choice that I was taken to the university. I assumed that it was just because of your father, Kat.” He pauses. “But I must have been taken there for a reason. I would bet the Horseman’s bones are somewhere inside the university.”
“You think my father hid them at his work?” I ask.
“Wait, what’s this about you being taken anywhere?” Brom interjects. I hadn’t wanted to go into detail, and I’d left that part of the story out.
Ichabod waves his hand dismissively, as if he doesn’t want his train of thought interrupted. “Yes, it makes sense.” His eyes are bright. “Meredith wasn’t aware of any of this until recently, was she? He wouldn’t have wanted to keep something like that at home where they could be found accidently. But the university has archives, storage rooms, restricted areas. There would be plenty of options to store them. If they used them in their rituals, they’d need them somewhere secure but accessible.”
Everything he’s saying makes sense, but the university is huge. Ichabod has just said it himself, there are so many places the bones could be hidden. It would take ages to search, even if we were in the right place. We’d wasted time already by coming here.
I nod decisively. “Okay, then that’s where we go next.”
The three of us move swiftly through the deserted streets, heading towards the university. I’m apprehensive to go back, given what had happened the last time Ichabod and I were there. But I’m determined to end this, and something deep within me is telling me I’m right, that if we can reunite Katrina and her lover, this will all be over.
So far, we haven’t passed a single soul as we make our way back out of the cemetery and head through the centre of the town. It looks abandoned. The shops are shut up tightly with no lights on inside. Most of the houses have their curtains drawn. Word must have gotten out about the Horseman, and I only hope that the townspeople can do enough to keep themselves safe.
We walk past a decaying pumpkin, grinning wildly as it collapses in on itself, and suddenly I register that today is October 31st. Halloween.
Back in London, the streets would be spilling over with children and adults alike in costume, laughing, chatting, heading to trick or treat or to a party. Here, it’s deathly quiet.
Our footsteps ring out on the cobblestones, Brom to my left and Ichabod to my right, moving quickly but cautiously.
We’ve just passed the old bandstand when a chill washes over me. The fog seems to congeal, lapping around our ankles. I come to a faltering stop.
“Kat, what is it?” Ichabod turns, reaching out his hand for me.
“Don’t you feel that?” My words are hushed.
I don’t need to say any more. A fraction of a second later, we hear it. The sounds of hooves. Slow at first, a measured, deliberate gait.
Then a trot.
