The world around me is a blur of tears and twisting shadows, and I swear the moon has come out early only to mock me, telling me I’m out of time. My heart is slamming against my ribs, every muscle in my body screaming at me to stop. But I don’t. I can’t. I don’t know how much time Ichabod and Brom can buy me. If they’re even still...
Focus.
The edge of the box is cutting into my chest where I’m grasping it so tightly, as if it will disappear if I relax my grip for even a second.
I sprint through the abandoned streets, past dark houses. The Halloween decorations are oddly appropriate, but at the same time, they only serve as a reminder that these streets should befilled with happy people, celebrating. It reminds me of what is at stake.
At long last, I make my way up the twisty, tree-lined road, and the gates to Van Tassel Manor start to appear through the haze. I almost sag with relief, but I mustn’t slow down now. I risk a backwards glance. The Horseman isn’t coming for me. For now.
My fingers fumble to open the gates one-handed, tucking the box securely under the other arm. I nearly trip over my own feet as I stumble through and up the long, winding driveway. I push forward, my energy almost giving out.
The front door is mercifully unlocked, and the ground floor is empty. Toby and Meredith must still be upstairs. Thank god, I don’t think I could face them right now. Don’t have the time to explain what’s happening.
I don’t stop. Through the entryway, past the grand staircase, through the house I once thought I would never call my home. Now I’m racing to save it, what’s left of it, and the rest of the town of Sleepy Hollow too.
The quickest route into the garden from here is through the ruined ballroom. Glass still litters the floor, the curtains billow in the wind, the smell of burned candle wax and blood lingering in the air. I keep my eyes on the broken French doors and the patio beyond. I can’t look around.
I burst through the patio doors, back out into the icy air once more. Crossing the cool paving slabs, I weave my way through the flower beds, and then into the vast garden beyond. From the corner of my eye, I notice a crow, its beady eyes watching me intently.
I push forward, down overgrown and tangled paths, past towering stone statues, past a dry fountain I didn’t even know existed and under ivy-cloaked archways.
The ground slopes downward, leading to the first line of trees from the forest. But just before that, the family mausoleum stands.
It waits for me, probably in more ways than one.
It’s a low, one-story building made of white stone, a solemn structure bathed in moonlight. This is it. My namesake is in there somewhere. And hopefully with her is the secret to ridding Sleepy Hollow of the Horseman for good.
I slow as I get near, keenly listening out, but I can’t hear anything approach. The Van Tassel crest is etched into the heavy stone doors, the final resting place of all my ancestors.
I look down at the wooden box in my hands. I’ve made it.
But I know the Horseman is coming. I can feel it. He won’t let this end so easily.
The mausoleum doors don’t just look heavy, theyareheavy. My hands ache as I push against the stone with everything that I have. The ancient hinges groan and protest, resisting me, as if the dead inside know what I have with me and are desperate to keep it out. My breath fogs in the cold air from my exertion.
Finally, with a deep, rumbling creak, the doors part just enough for me to squeeze through. I step inside, taking the box with me.
The air feels thick and stale, with the scent of dust and damp stone. The chamber is bigger than I expected from the outside, with a high, arched ceiling. Weeping angels, carved into stone relief, look down on me. Thankfully, there are windows high up in the walls, and thin light streams through, enough to see by. Stone tombs rest in neat rows, set back into the walls and covering the floor in front of me. Each one bears the name of a long-gone Van Tassel.
The original Katrina Van Tassel would have died a few hundred years ago. My boots echo on the stone floor in thecavernous space, as I make my way towards the back, where the oldest graves must surely rest.
I reach a row, a few from the very back, whose inscriptions mark them as being from the early 1800s. Making a quick calculation, I reckon I’m looking for more of the mid-1800s. I walk slowly along the row, searching.
There. A stone sarcophagus, the name deeply engraved.
Katrina Van Tassel.
My fingers reach out and trace the name. It’s an odd feeling, seeing my own name inscribed on a tomb, but this is her. My throat tightens. My ancestor. The woman who I had grown close to through reading her diary. I felt joy when she fell in love, and pain when he was so cruelly snatched away.
Their love, damning them both. And the whole town.
I bow my head, taking a moment.
Before this week, I’d never thought I would be desecrating a grave. How my life has changed.
Behind me, the mausoleum doors fly open, banging back against the walls. Rubble cascades down, and a sharp, cold gust of air sweeps through the space.
I am no longer alone.
