She dug her heels into Gunpowder’s side, willing the cranky beast to do what he was asked without a fight for the first time in his life. He whickered in response, pulling obstinately to the left, nearly leading her into the trees. Katrina yelped. Looping the reins over her arm, she pulled with all her might, digging her heels into Gunpowder’s flanks with a force that made the broken-down old devil whinny in indignation, but wonder of wonders, he did as she asked. Pulling off to the edge of the road, she gave the impatient rider at her heels a wide berth.
The instant Gunpowder stopped, Katrina realized how foolish she was being in truth. The unseen horseman behind her was not galloping furiously, nor did they even appear to be that close behind her, for she had to wait several long heartbeats before the clop of his horse approached her at last. She was positive he had been following closer behind only a moment earlier, close enough for her to hear his laughter, to hear his horse snort in impatience. She was sure of it . . . be he was moving at a leisurely pace now. Katrina steeled herself as the stranger moved to pass her, sitting up in her saddle and jutting out her chin defiantly.
It would be Brom, perhaps old Van Ripper. One of the boys in town, or one of the young couples, too intent on each other to realize how closely they were following. It wouldnotbe the subject of that evening’s ghost story, for there was no such thing as a headless rider marauding through the village.
Katrina Van Tassel was no stranger to ghosts, so it made no sense for her blood to freeze as it did when the black horse passed her at last. She could see the steam rising from its nostrils, practically felt its frustration at being reined in so tightly, allowing its rider to pass her slowly.
The man astride the giant horse was clothed in dark colors, save for the brilliant white strap across his chest, gleaming beneath the moon. He appeared huge and hulking to her, but she reminded herself that was likely a trick of perspective, due to the great size of his mount. He gripped his reins nimbly in black gloved hands.
When one of those large hands raised to tip his hat to her, she thought she might fall off Gunpowder’s back. There was no hat to tip, for the rider was absent a head, but it seemed he had not lost his courtesy along with it. The great black beast clomped into the covered barn, its glinting hooves striking the ancient beamed floor, and she waited. The horse and its rider never emerged from the other side, and the sound of the dell was once more full of crickets and tree frogs and the hooting of an owl.
There was nothing to fear from spirits, she reminded herself. They were no longer of this world, possessed no solid form, and were little more than dust motes, wavering in the places they had once known best. Sheknewthat . . . but something curled in her belly, an odd premonition that seemed to hang in the air, forcing its way down her throat, filling her with its chill.You’re being silly. Whether she was or was not, Katrina reminded herself, she could not stay there at the side of the road all night, and so she pushed old Gunpowder on, crossing the empty bridge unmolested, scarcely breathing all the way back to Jansen’s farm.
Afterthatnight,shewondered how it was possible that she had lived in the Hollow for so long without encountering the headless specter, for it seemed she was unable to traverse the road leading to the churchyard without encountering the ghost.
Katrina would be the beneficiary of his nocturnal escort at least three nights weekly throughout the month of September, particularly on those nights when the moon was hidden in clouds and the road through town extra dark. Or else, on nights when the wind rattled through the barren branches, sending a gust of crunchy leaves up the dust-beaten path, the cold air holding the chill of a crypt.
Their curious routine began shortly after that fateful autumn clambake. Two of her students had been absent for more than a week. The girls were needed at home, according to a note that had found its way to the edge of her desk in the church’s back room, the note relocating to the pocket of her apron, read and clutched and read again, wondering if this was a sign of things to come. If families pulled their daughters from the school, she would be dismissed. If she were dismissed, Sleepy Hollow would be one more village behind her as she danced along the lane like another scattered leaf, blowing into whatever uncertain future awaited.
She had already stayed with the Van Wees family — Pieter and Annika and their five daughters, the neighbors of the Van Rippers. The eldest two girls had been her students, and she wondered if they still would be, come sunrise. When a missive addressed to her was delivered to the school one morning from the girls’ father, requesting her presence at supper for the following evening, Katrina set off on Gunpowder with her heart in her mouth. She hadn’t known what to expect. An explanation of why the girls had been pulled from class, perhaps, or maybe the witchcraft charge she was certain always hung over her head.
The reality had been far more heartbreaking.
“I’m not going to survive this. It doesn’t matter what the doctor says, I already know. I can feel it in my bones. I can tell every time I cough, and there’s a bit more blood on the handkerchief.” Pieter Van Wees, she had been told, had always been a pragmatic man. “My girls are going to inherit this farm, and I don’t want them to be forced to marry before their time just to survive. These vultures will start circling before I’m even cold in the ground, trying to snap up all I’ve built. Well, the Horseman can have them. I want to know before I go to meet my maker that my girls can read and write, that they can do figures. They need to run things on their own. There’s not much I’m able to do alone anymore, so we need them here during the day . . . but if you can provide private instruction, I can pay you a quarter a week.”
Doubling her weekly salary was not a proposition she could decline, even if she had wanted to, which she did not. The Van Wees’ had been sociable and friendly, treating her well for the few weeks she had stayed with them, and she was pleased by his request. The eldest girl was no more than fourteen or fifteen, and Katrina, too, had no desire to see her married off to some man twice her age.
“I can start this evening, if you’d like,” she’d told him resolutely. “And I’ll make sure the older girls know enough to teach the young ones when it’s their time, if I’m not here to teach them myself.”
The private tutelage meant venturing back to those eastern farms each afternoon, coming back across town the nightly. They had offered her room & board once more, but she was hesitant to leave her comfortable place in the Jansen household. The shoemaker’s new wife was heavy with child and needed all the help she could get, and besides that, she liked the morning proximity to her classroom. She might feel differently when the cold winds of winter blew in, but for now, she didn’t mind the journey on horseback.
Katrina realized the first week of her new schedule that her evening travel necessitated following the same path she had taken coming home from the clambake — through the darkly wooded dell, across the old Major’s bridge, up the hill past the churchyard. The first several nights that she journeyed home, she traveled alone, all the way to Jansen’s yard. By the end of that first week, though, she saw him again.
She’d been preoccupied, mentally thinking through her lesson plans as Gunpowder plodded along, and so the sudden sound of hoofbeats close behind had startled her. She’d passed a buggy earlier in her journey, followed a short while later by a farm wagon, but the road had been deserted since then, and she was lost in her thoughts. Katrina jerked at the sound of the approaching horse, coming up fast on her rear. Fast in pursuit. A steady three beats, the cantering horse was not at a full gallop, but was still coming up behind her at a speed that could only be considered as threatening.
Panic overtook her. She was a woman, traveling alone at night, and there was no shortage of dangers that lurked in the shadows. She’d not been thinking at the time, hadn’t realized it was likely the ghostly rider untilaftershe’d kicked Gunpowder into a run, and by then, it was too late.
Darkness surrounded her in the wooded dell, Gunpowder jerking in fear, unused to the sensation of being pursued, and Katrina shrieked. She dug her heels in once more, the old horse speeding into a full gallop, and a crazed laugh seemed to rise up from the very trees surrounding her. The hooves belonging to the chasing horse beat the earth furiously then, and the sinister laughter of her pursuer echoed as she and her terrified mount broke through the tree cover at last, pounding up the road to the old Major’s bridge. Katrina realized too late that it was Horseman, and that she ought to have ridden slowly, as she’d done that first time.
He would catch her, of that she was certain. There was no way to outrun the ghost, and she realized how poorly her panic boded for her.He rides seeking his head.If she would have remained calm and courteous, he might have passed the way he’d done that first night, but instead she’d panicked and run. She had run and he had given chase, exactly what he had wanted at that moment, and now her neck would pay the price for her foolishness.
Gunpowder entered the bridge. The noise of his striking hooves momentarily supplanted the mad laughter of the Headless Horseman, and she screamed again when the sound was swallowed by the second horse entering the covered space. She was positive she could feel the icy grip of his hand around her arm, the beating hooves of his horse overtaking hers, and she braced herself for the blow that never came. Instead, the chill of the open air hit her face as Gunpowder exploded from the bridge, the old horse whinnying in fear.
They were halfway up the hill when she realized the echoing sounds of the pursuer had silenced. Katrina did not slow down, did not look back, and her heart did not stop pounding until they had crossed over the town square, far past the old church yard. She fancied she could still hear the ringing echo of the Horseman’s laughter, but they were alone once more. She understood then just why her neighbors treatedthisparticular spirit as one to be feared, for she had never been more afraid in her life.
The next time she encountered the headless rider, Katrina was slightly better prepared. Brom Bones was right. He did not give chase all the way to Tarrytown. There was something in the stretch of road, the wooded dell and the covered bridge, that signified his domain. She paid close attention as she crossed into the dark cluster of trees each evening, holding her breath as she crossed the bridge, and on the third night after that terrifying encounter, she met him on the road again.
He was a gentleman, she reminded herself, thinking back to that night of the village clambake. She kept her composure as best she could, gripping the reins with whitened knuckles, keeping Gunpowder steady. Glancing over her shoulder, Katrina steeled herself. She dipped her head respectfully, indicating with an outstretched hand the road before her, allowing him berth to pass. In response, he bowed to her, a short bob from the waist that let her see the shape of his neck within his high collar. He had been decapitated at the very top of his throat, where jaw melted into the column supporting it, if she had to make a guess.
She realized her first impression of his size had been no trick of perspective. He was just as big as his horse, and his horse was massive. When he stretched out his own arm, the long, gloved fingers on his hand unfurled like a shadow, gesturing for her to continue on.It’s fine. It’s going to be fine. If you don’t run, he won’t chase.Gunpowder nickered nervously, and she ran a fast hand down the old horse’s mane.
“I know, boy. We need to think of it as an escort. They’ll disappear at the bridge.”
But he hadn’t disappeared at the bridge. The tread of the phantom horse shook the old wooden beams, and she sucked in a shaky breath, willing herself with everything she had in her not to dig her heels into the old farm horse’s sides. The Horseman followed her up the hill, silent atop his steed, keeping a measured pace until they reached the church yard. She felt the moment he dropped back, keeping her spine straight.
Don’t look back. You don’t need to look back.Gunpowder huffed as if he could read her thoughts and Katrina frowned, her inner voice mirroring the horse’s sound of disgust.Would you just ignore someone who rode with you if this was the middle of the afternoon? If it was Brom? Or Jansen? Would you just ride off rudely and not even say good night?
Gunpowder protested when she turned in her saddle, but she twisted until she was practically backward. He was directing his own mount into the open gate, in between the rows of crooked, ancient headstones, tipping the hat that wasn’t there to her again when she raised a shaky hand in parting. By the time she’d reached the other side of the small church, he was gone.
